The exiles and other stories

f LIBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF

CALIF f NIA
SANTA CRUZ

V

THE EXILES

AND OTHER STORIES

Instead she buried her face in its folds.

THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

THE EXILES

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

CHARLES DANA GIBSON

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1920

«Th« Erik*" and "The Boy Orator of Zepata Cfty*
from "The Exiles," copyright, 1894, by HARPER &
BROTHERS.

"The Other Woman " from " Gallegher," copyright. 1891.
by CHARLES SCRIBNBR'S SONS; " On the Fever Ship."
"The Lion and the Unicorn," and "The Last Ride
Together " from " The Lion and the Unicorn," copyright.
1899, by CHARLES SCRIBNBR'S SONS; " Miss Delamar's
Understudy" from "Cinderella."' copyright. 1896. by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, "The Reporter Who
Made Himself King" from "Stories for Boys. '|copy-
right, 1891, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

COPYRIGHT, 1916. BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

COPYRIGHT, 1918. BY
BESSIE McCOY DAVIS

£97

TO
MY FRIEND

DAVIS BRODHEAD

THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF DAVIS

DICK was twenty-four years old when he came
into the smoking-room of the Victoria Hotel, in
London, after midnight one July night — he was
dressed as a Thames boatman.

He had been rowing up and down the river since
sundown, looking for color. He had evidently peo
pled every dark corner with a pirate, and every
floating object had meant something to him. He
had adventure written all over him. It was the
first time I had ever seen him, and I had never
heard of him. I can't now recall another figure in
that smoke-filled room. I don't remember who
introduced us — over twenty-seven years have passed
since that night. But I can see Dick now dressed
in a rough brown suit, a soft hat, with a handker
chief about his neck, a splendid, healthy, clean-
minded, gifted boy at play. And so he always
remained.

His going out of this world seemed like a boy in
terrupted in a game he loved. And how well and
fairly he played it ! Surely no one deserved success
more than Dick. And it is a consolation to know
he had more than fifty years of just what he wanted.

vii

THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF DAVIS

He had health, a great talent, and personal charm.
There never was a more loyal or unselfish friend.
There wasn't an atom of envy in him. He had
unbounded mental and physical courage, and with
it all he was sensitive and sometimes shy. He often
tried to conceal these last two qualities, but never
succeeded in doing so from those of us who were
privileged really to know and love him.

His life was filled with just the sort of adventure
he liked the best. No one ever saw more wars in
so many different places or got more out of them.
And it took the largest war in all history to wear
out that stout heart.

We shall miss him.

CHARLES DANA GIBSON.

CONTENTS

The First Glimpse of Davis . . Charles Dana Gibson

PACK

THE EXILES I

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY .... 72

THE OTHER WOMAN . 94

ON THE FEVER SHIP Il8

THE LION AND THE UNICORN 144

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 204

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY 214

THE REPORTER WHO MADE HIMSELF KING 249

ILLUSTRATIONS

INSTEAD SHE BURIED HER FACE IN ITS
FOLDS Frontispiece

FACING
PAGE

STOPPING FOR HALF-HOURS AT A TIME BE
FORE A BAZAAR 14

THE BOAR HUNT 38

CONSUMED TEA AND THIN SLICES OF BREAD 152

"I NEVER SAW A KING," GORDON REMARKED 262

THE EXILES

I

THE greatest number of people in the world
prefer the most highly civilized places of the
world, because they know what sort of things
are going to happen there, and because they
also know by experience that those are the sort
of things they like. A very few people prefer
barbarous and utterly uncivilized portions of
the globe for the reason that they receive while
there new impressions, and because they like
the unexpected better than a routine of exis
tence, no matter how pleasant that routine may
be. But the most interesting places of all to
study are those in which the savage and the
cultivated man lie down together and try to
live together in unity. This is so because we
can learn from such places just how far a man
of cultivation lapses into barbarism when he
associates with savages, and how far the rem
nants of his former civilization will have in
fluence upon the barbarians among whom he
has come to live.

There are many such colonies as these, and
they are the most picturesque plague-spots on

i

THE EXILES

the globe. You will find them in New Zealand
and at Yokohama, in Algiers, Tunis, and Tan
gier, and scattered thickly all along the South
American coast-line wherever the law of extra
dition obtains not, and where public opinion,
which is one of the things a colony can do
longest without, is unknown. These are the
unofficial Botany Bays and Melillas of the
world, where the criminal goes of his own ac
cord, and not because his government has
urged him to do so and paid his passage there.
This is the story of a young man who went
to such a place for the benefit he hoped it would
be to his health, and not because he had robbed
any one, or done a young girl an injury. He
was the only son of Judge Henry Howard Hoi-
combe, of New York. That was all that it
was generally considered necessary to say of
him. It was not, however, quite enough, for,
while his father had had nothing but the right
and the good of his State and country to think
about, the son was further occupied by trying
to live up to his father's name. Young Hoi-
combe was impressed by this fact from his
earliest childhood. It rested upon him while
at Harvard and during his years at the law
school, and it went with him into society and
into the courts of law. When he rose to plead
a case he did not forget, nor did those present

2

THE EXILES

forget, that his father while alive had crowded
those same halls with silent, earnest listeners;
and when he addressed a mass-meeting at
Cooper Union, or spoke from the back of a cart
in the East Side, some one was sure to refer to
the fact that this last speaker was the son of
the man who was mobbed because he had dared
to be an abolitionist, and who later had received
the veneration of a great city for his bitter
fight against Tweed and his followers.

Young Holcombe was an earnest member of
every reform club and citizens' league, and his
distinguished name gave weight as a director to
charitable organizations and free kindergartens.
He had inherited his hatred of Tammany Hall,
and was unrelenting in his war upon it and its
handiwork, and he spoke of it and of its immedi
ate downfall with the bated breath of one who,
though amazed at the wickedness of the thing
he fights, is not discouraged nor afraid. And
he would listen to no half-measures. Had not
his grandfather quarrelled with Henry Clay,
and so shaken the friendship of a lifetime, be
cause of a great compromise which he could
not countenance? And was his grandson to
truckle and make deals with this hideous octo
pus that was sucking the life-blood from the
city's veins? Had he not but yesterday dis
tributed six hundred circulars, calling for honest

3

THE EXILES

government, to six hundred possible voters, all
the way up Fourth Avenue? — and when some
flippant one had said that he might have hired
a messenger-boy to have done it for him and
so saved his energies for something less mechan
ical, he had rebuked the speaker with a re
proachful stare and turned away in silence.

Life was terribly earnest to young Holcombe,
and he regarded it from the point of view of one
who looks down upon it from the judge's bench,
and listens with a frown to those who plead its
cause. He was not fooled by it; he was alive to
its wickedness and its evasions. He would tell
you that he knew for a fact that the window
man in his district was a cousin of the Tam
many candidate, and that the contractor who
had the cleaning of the street to do was a
brother-in-law of one of the Hall's sachems,
and that the policeman on his beat had not
been in the country eight months. He spoke
of these damning facts with the air of one who
simply tells you that much, that you should
see how terrible the whole thing really was,
and what he could tell if he wished.

In his own profession he recognized the
trials of law-breakers only as experiments
which went to establish and explain a general
principle. And prisoners were not men to him,
but merely the exceptions that proved the

4

THE EXILES

excellence of a rule. Holcombe would defend
the lowest creature or the most outrageous of
murderers, not because the man was a human
being fighting for his liberty or life, but because
he wished to see if certain evidence would be
admitted in the trial of such a case. Of one
of his clients the judge, who had a daughter of
his own, said, when he sentenced him, "Were
there many more such men as you in the world,
the women of this land would pray to God to
be left childless." And when some one asked
Holcombe, with ill-concealed disgust, how he
came to defend the man, he replied: "I wished
to show the unreliability of expert testimony
from medical men. Yes; they tell me the man
was a very bad lot."

It was measures, not men, to Holcombe, and
law and order were his twin goddesses, and "no
compromise" his watchword.

f<You can elect your man if you'll give me
two thousand dollars to refit our club-room
with," one of his political acquaintances once
said to him. "We've five hundred voters on
the rolls now, and the members vote as one
man. You'd be saving the city twenty times
that much if you keep Croker's man out of the
job. You know that as well as I do."

"The city can better afford to lose twenty
thousand dollars," Holcombe answered, "than

5

THE EXILES

we can afford to give a two-cent stamp for
corruption."

"All right," said the heeler; "all right, Mr.
Holcombe. Go on. Fight 'em your own way.
If they'd agree to fight you with pamphlets
and circulars you'd stand a chance, sir; but as
long as they give out money and you give out
reading-matter to people that can't read, they'll
win, and I naturally want to be on the winning
side."

When the club to which Holcombe belonged
finally succeeded in getting the Police Commis
sioners indicted for blackmailing gambling-
houses, Holcombe was, as a matter of course
and of public congratulation, on the side of
the law; and as Assistant District Attorney —
a position given him on account of his father's
name and in the hope that it would shut his
mouth — distinguished himself nobly.

Of the four commissioners, three were con
victed—the fourth, Patrick Meakim, with ad
mirable foresight having fled to that country
from which few criminals return, and which is
vaguely set forth in the newspapers as "parts
unknown."

The trial had been a severe one upon the
zealous Mr. Holcombe, who found himself at
the end of it in a very bad way, with nerves un
strung and brain so fagged that he assented

6

THE EXILES

without question when his doctor exiled him
from New York by ordering a sea voyage, with
change of environment and rest at the other
end of it. Some one else suggested the northern
coast of Africa and Tangier, and Holcombe
wrote minute directions to the secretaries of
all of his reform clubs urging continued efforts
on the part of his fellow-workers, and sailed
away one cold winter's morning for Gibraltar.
The great sea laid its hold upon him, and the
winds from the south thawed the cold in his
bones, and the sun cheered his tired spirit. He
stretched himself at full length reading those
books which one puts off reading until illness
gives one the right to do so, and so far as in
him lay obeyed his doctor's first command,
that he should forget New York and all that
pertained to it. By the time he had reached
the Rock he was up and ready to drift farther
into the lazy, irresponsible life of the Mediter
ranean coast, and he had forgotten his struggles
against municipal misrule, and was at times
for hours together utterly oblivious of his own
personality.

A dumpy, fat little steamer rolled itself along
like a sailor on shore from Gibraltar to Tangier,
and Holcombe, leaning over the rail of its
quarter-deck, smiled down at the chattering
group of Arabs and Moors stretched on their

7

THE EXILES

rugs beneath him. A half-naked negro, pulling
at the dates in the basket between his bare
legs, held up a handful to him with a laugh,
and Holcombe laughed back and emptied the
cigarettes in his case on top of him, and laughed
again as the ship's crew and the deck passen
gers scrambled over one another and shook out
their voluminous robes in search of them. He
felt at ease with the world and with himself,
and turned his eyes to the white walls of Tangier
with a pleasure so complete that it shut out
even the thought that it was a pleasure.

The town seemed one continuous mass of
white stucco, with each flat, low-lying roof so
close to the other that the narrow streets left
no trace. To the left of it the yellow coast
line and the green olive-trees and palms stretched
up against the sky, and beneath him scores of
shrieking blacks fought in their boats for a
place beside the steamer's companion-way. He
jumped into one of these open wherries and
fell sprawling among his baggage, and laughed
lightly as a boy as the boatman set him on his
feet again, and then threw them from under
him with a quick stroke of the oars. The
high, narrow pier was crowded with excited
customs officers in ragged uniforms and dirty
turbans, and with a few foreign residents
looking for arriving passengers. Holcombe had

8

THE EXILES

his feet on the upper steps of the ladder, and
was ascending slowly. There was a fat, heavily
built man in blue serge leaning across the
railing of the pier. He was looking down, and
as his eyes met Holcombe's face his own straight-
i ened into lines of amazement and most evident
terror. Holcombe stopped at the sight, and
stared back wondering. And then the lapping
waters beneath him and the white town at his
side faded away, and he was back in the hot,
crowded court-room with this man's face before
him. Meakim, the fourth of the Police Com
missioners, confronted him, and saw in his
presence nothing but a menace to himself.

Holcombe came up the last steps of the
stairs, and stopped at their top. His instinct
and life's tradition made him despise the man,
and to this was added the selfish disgust that
his holiday should have been so soon robbed of
its character by this reminder of all that he had
been told to put behind him.

Meakim swept off his hat as though it were
hurting him, and showed the great drops of
sweat on his forehead.

"For God's sake!" the man panted, "you
can't touch me here, Mr. Holcombe. I'm safe
here; they told me I'd be. You can't take
me. You can't touch me."

Holcombe stared at the man coldly, and with

9

THE EXILES

a touch of pity and contempt. "That is quite
right, Mr. Meakim," he said. "The law cannot
reach you here."

"Then what do you want with me?" the man
demanded, forgetful in his terror of anything
but his own safety.

Holcombe turned upon him sharply. "I am
not here on your account, Mr. Meakim," he said.
"You need not feel the least uneasiness, and,"
he added, dropping his voice as he noticed
that others were drawing near, "if you keep
out of my way, I shall certainly keep out of
yours."

The Police Commissioner gave a short laugh
partly of bravado and partly at his own sudden
terror. "I didn't know," he said, breathing
with relief. "I thought you'd come after me.
You don't wonder you give me a turn, do you?
I was scared." He fanned himself with his
straw hat, and ran his tongue over his lips.
"Going to be here some time, Mr. District
Attorney?" he added, with grave politeness.

Holcombe could not help but smile at the
absurdity of it. It was so like what he would
have expected of Meakim and his class to give
every office-holder his full title. "No, Mr.
Police Commissioner," he answered, grimly,
and nodding to his boatmen, pushed his way
after them and his trunks along the pier.

10

THE EXILES

Meakim was waiting for him as he left the
custom-house. He touched his hat, and bent
the whole upper part of his fat body in an awk
ward bow. "Excuse me, Mr. District Attor
ney/' he began.

"Oh, drop that, will you?" snapped Hoi-
combe. "Now, what is it you want, Meakim?"

"I was only going to say," answered the
fugitive, with some offended dignity, "that as
I've been here longer than you, I could perhaps
give you pointers about the hotels. I've tried
'em all, and they're no good, but the Albion's
the best."

"Thank you, I'm sure," said Holcombe.
"But I have been told to go to the Isabella."

"Well, that's pretty good, too," Meakim an
swered, "if you don't mind the tables. They
keep you awake most of the night, though,
and "

"The tables? I beg your pardon," said
Holcombe, stiffly.

"Not the eatin' tables; the roulette tables,"
corrected Meakim. "Of course," he continued,
grinning, "if you're fond of the game, Mr. Hol
combe, it's handy having them in the same
house, but I can steer you against a better one
back of the French Consulate. Those at the
Hotel Isabella's crooked."

Holcombe stopped uncertainly. "I don't

II

THE EXILES

know just what to do," he said. "I think I
shall wait until I can see our consul here."

"Oh, he'll send you to the Isabella," said
Meakim, cheerfully. "He gets two hundred
dollars a week for protecting the proprietor, so
he naturally caps for the house."

Holcombe opened his mouth to express him
self, but closed it again, and then asked, with
some misgivings, of the hotel of which Meakim
had first spoken.

"Oh, the Albion. Most all the swells go
there. It's English, and they cook you a good
beefsteak. And the boys generally drop in
for table d'hote. You see, that's the worst of
this place, Mr. Holcombe; there's nowhere to
go evenings — no club-rooms nor theatre nor
nothing; only the smoking-room of the hotel
or that gambling-house; and they spring a
double naught on you if there's more than a
dollar up."

Holcombe still stood irresolute, his porters
eying him from under their burdens, and the
runners from the different hotels plucking at
his sleeve.

''There's some very good people at the Al
bion," urged the Police Commissioner, "and
three or four of 'em's New-Yorkers. There's
the Morrises and Ropes, the Consul-General,
and Lloyd Carroll '

12

THE EXILES

"Lloyd Carroll!" exclaimed Holcombe.

"Yes," said Meakim, with a smile, "he's
here." He looked at Holcombe curiously for a
moment, and then exclaimed, with a laugh of
intelligence, "Why, sure enough, you were Mr.
Thatcher's lawyer in that case, weren't you?
It was you got him his divorce?"

Holcombe nodded.

"Carroll was the man that made it possible,
wasn't he?"

Holcombe chafed under this catechism. "He
was one of a dozen, I believe," he said; but as
he moved away he turned and asked: "And
Mrs. Thatcher. What has become of her?"

The Police Commissioner did not answer at
once, but glanced up at Holcombe from under
his half-shut eyes with a look in which there
was a mixture of curiosity and of amusement.
"You don't mean to say, Mr. Holcombe," he
began, slowly, with the patronage of the older
man and with a touch of remonstrance in his
tone, "that you're still with the husband in
that case?"

Holcombe looked coldly over Mr. Meakim's
head. "I have only a purely professional in
terest in any one of them," he said. "They
struck me as a particularly nasty lot. Good-
morning, sir."

"Well," Meakim called after him, "you

13

THE EXILES

needn't see nothing of them if you don't want
to. You can get rooms to yourself."

Holcombe did get rooms to himself, with a
balcony overlooking the bay, and arranged with
the proprietor of the Albion to have his dinner
served at a separate table. As others had done
this before, no one regarded it as an affront
upon his society, and several people in the hotel
made advances to him, which he received
politely but coldly. For the first week of his
visit the town interested him greatly, increasing
its hold upon him unconsciously to himself.
He was restless and curious to see it all, and
rushed his guide from one of the few show-
places to the next with an energy which left
that fat Oriental panting.

But after three days Holcombe climbed the
streets more leisurely, stopping for half-hours at
a time before a bazaar, or sent away his guide
altogether, and stretched himself luxuriously on
the broad wall of the fortifications. The sun
beat down upon him, and wrapped him into
drowsiness. From far afield came the unceasing
murmur of the market-place and the bazaars,
and the occasional cries of the priests from the
minarets; the dark blue sea danced and flashed
beyond the white margin of the town and its
protecting reef of rocks where the sea-weed rose
and fell, and above his head the buzzards swept

14

03

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JC

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o

a

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CO

THE EXILES

heavily, and called to one another with harsh,
frightened cries. At his side lay the dusty
road, hemmed in by walls of cactus, and along
its narrow length came lines of patient little
donkeys with jangling necklaces, led by wild-
looking men from the farm-lands and the desert,
and women muffled and shapeless, with only
their bare feet showing, who looked at him
curiously or meaningly from over the protecting
cloth, and passed on, leaving him startled and
wondering. He began to find that the books
he had brought wearied him. The sight of the
type alone was enough to make him close the
covers and start up restlessly to look for some
thing less absorbing. He found this on every
hand, in the lazy patience of the bazaars and
of the markets, where the chief service of all
was that of only standing and waiting, and in
the farm-lands behind Tangier, where half-
naked slaves drove great horned buffalo, and
turned back the soft, chocolate-colored sod
with a wooden plough. But it was a solitary,
selfish holiday, and Holcombe found himself
wanting certain ones at home to bear him com
pany, and was surprised to find that of these
none were the men nor the women with whom
his interests in the city of New York were the
most closely connected. They were rather
foolish people, men at whom he had laughed

15

THE EXILES

and whom he had rather pitied for having
made him do so, and women he had looked at
distantly as of a kind he might understand when
nis work was over and he wished to be amused.
The young girls to whom he was in the habit
of pouring out his denunciations of evil, and
from whom he was accustomed to receive ad
vice and moral support, he could not place in
this landscape. He felt uneasily that they
would not allow him to enjoy it his own way;
they would consider the Moor historically as
the invader of Catholic Europe, and would be
shocked at the lack of proper sanitation, and
would see the mud. As for himself, he had
risen above seeing the mud. He looked up now
at the broken line of the roof-tops against
the blue sky, and when a hooded figure drew
back from his glance he found himself mur
muring the words of an Eastern song he had
read in a book of Indian stories:

"Alone upon the house-tops, to the north
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky, —

The glamour of thy footsteps in the north.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die !

"Below my feet the still bazaar is laid.
Far, far below, the weary camels lie "

Holcombe laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
He had stopped half-way down the hill on which

16

THE EXILES

stands the Bashaw's palace, and the whole of
Tangier lay below him like a great cemetery of
white marble. The moon was shining clearly
over the town and the sea, and a soft wind from
the sandy farm-lands came to him and played
about him like the fragrance of a garden.
Something moved in him that he did not recog
nize, but which was strangely pleasant, and
which ran to his brain like the taste of a strong
liqueur. It came to him that he was alone
among strangers, and that what he did now
would be known but to himself and to these
strangers. What it was that he wished to do
he did not know, but he felt a sudden lifting up
and freedom from restraint. The spirit of ad
venture awoke in him and tugged at his sleeve,
and he was conscious of a desire to gratify it
and put it to the test.

"'Alone upon the house-tops," he began.
Then he laughed and clambered hurriedly down
the steep hill-side. "It's the moonlight," he
explained to the blank walls and overhanging
lattices, "and the place and the music of the
song. It might be one of the Arabian nights,
and I Haroun al Raschid. And if I don't get
back to the hotel I shall make a fool of myself.'*

He reached the Albion very warm and breath
less, with stumbling and groping in the dark,
and instead of going immediately to bed told

17

THE EXILES

the waiter to bring him some cool drink out on
the terrace of the smoking-room. There were
two men sitting there in the moonlight, and as
he came forward one of them nodded to him
silently.

"Oh, good-evening, Mr. Meakim!" Hoi-
combe said, gayly, with the spirit of the night
still upon him. " I've been having adventures."
He laughed, and stooped to brush the dirt from
his knickerbockers and stockings. "I went up
to the palace to see the town by moonlight, and
tried to find my way back alone, and fell down
three times."

Meakim shook his head gravely. "You'd
better be careful at night, sir," he said. "The
governor has just said that the Sultan won't be
responsible for the lives of foreigners at night
'unless accompanied by soldier and lantern."

"Yes, and the legations sent word that they
wouldn't have it," broke in the other man.
"They said they'd hold him responsible any
way."

There was a silence, and Meakim moved in
some slight uneasiness. "Mr. Holcombe, do
you know Mr. Carroll?" he said.

Carroll half rose from his chair, but Hoi-
combe was dragging another toward him, and
so did not have a hand to give him.

"How are you, Carroll?" he said, pleasantly.

18

THE EXILES

The night was warm, and Holcombe was tired
after his rambles, and so he sank back in the
low wicker chair contentedly enough, and when
the first cool drink was finished he clapped his
hands for another, and then another, while the
two men sat at the table beside him and avoided
such topics as would be unfair to any of them.

"And yet," said Holcombe, after the first
half-hour had passed, "there must be a few
agreeable people here. I am sure I saw some
very nice-looking women to-day coming in from
the fox-hunt. And very well gotten up, too,
in Karki habits. And the men were handsome,
decent-looking chaps — Englishmen, I think."

"Who does he mean? Were you at the meet
to-day?" asked Carroll.

The Tammany chieftain said no, that he did
not ride — not after foxes, in any event. "But
I saw Mrs. Hornby and her sister coming back,"
he said. "They had on those linen habits."

"Well, now, there's a woman who illustrates
just what I have been saying," continued
Carroll. :<You picked her out as a self-respect
ing, nice-looking girl — and so she is — but she
wouldn't like to have to tell all she knows.
No, they are all pretty much alike. They
wear low-neck frocks, and the men put on
evening dress for dinner, and they ride after
foxes, and they drop in to five-o'clock tea, and

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THE EXILES

they all play that they're a lot of gilded saints,
and it's one of the rules of the game that you
must believe in the next man, so that he will
believe in you. I'm breaking the rules myself
now, because I say 'they' when I ought to say
'we.' We're none of us here for our health,
Holcombe, but it pleases us to pretend we are.
It's a sort of give and take. We all sit around
at dinner-parties and smile and chatter, and
those English talk about the latest news from
'town,' and how they mean to run back for the
season or the hunting. But they know they
don't dare go back, and they know that every
body at the table knows it, and that the ser
vants behind them know it. But it's more
easy that way. There's only a few of us here,
and we've got to hang together or we'd go
crazy."

" That's so," said Meakim, approvingly. "It
makes it more sociable."

"It's a funny place," continued Carroll.
The wine had loosened his tongue, and it was
something to him to be able to talk to one of
his own people again, and to speak from their
point of view, so that the man who had gone
through St. Paul's and Harvard with him would
see it as such a man should. "It's a funny
place, because, in spite of the fact that it's a
prison, you grow to like it for its freedom.

20

THE EXILES

You can do things here you can't do in New
York, and pretty much everything goes there,
or it used to, where I hung out. But here
you're just your own master, and there's no
law and no religion and no relations nor news
papers to poke into what you do nor how you
live. You can understand what I mean if
you've ever tried living in the West. I used to
feel the same way the year I was ranching in
Texas. My family sent me out there to put
me out of temptation; but I concluded I'd
rather drink myself to death on good whiskey
at Del's than on the stuff we got on the range,
so I pulled my freight and came East again.
But while I was there I was a little king. I was
just as good as the next man, and he was no
better than me. And though the life was
rough, and it was cold and lonely, there was
something in being your own boss that made
you stick it out there longer than anything else
did. It was like this, Holcombe." Carroll
half rose from his chair and marked what he
said with his finger. "Every time I took a
step and my gun bumped against my hip, I'd
straighten up and feel good and look for trouble.
There was nobody to appeal to; it was just be
tween me and him, and no one else had any say
about it. Well, that's what it's like here.
You see men come to Tangier on the run,

21

THE EXILES

flying from detectives or husbands or bank di
rectors, men who have lived perfectly decent,
commonplace lives up to the time they made
their one bad break — which," Carroll added,
in polite parenthesis, with a deprecatory wave
of his hand toward Meakim and himself, "we
are all likely to do some time, aren't we?"

"Just so," said Meakim.

"Of course," assented the District Attorney.

"But as soon as he reaches this place, Hoi-
combe," continued Carroll, "he begins to show
just how bad he is. It all comes out — all his
viciousness and rottenness and blackguardism.
There is nothing to shame it, and there is no
one to blame him, and no one is in a position
to throw the first stone." Carroll dropped his
voice and pulled his chair forward with a glance
over his shoulder. "One of those men you
saw riding in from the meet to-day. Now, he's
a German officer, and he's here for forging a
note or cheating at cards or something quiet
and gentlemanly, nothing that shows him to be
a brute or a beast. But last week he had old
MuIIey Wazzam buy him a slave girl in Fez,
and bring her out to his house in the suburbs.
It seems that the girl was in love with a soldier
in the Sultan's body-guard at Fez, and tried to
run away to join him, and this man met her
quite by accident as she was making her way

22

THE EXILES

south across the sand-hills. He was whip that
day, and was hurrying out to the meet alone.
He had some words with the girl first, and then
took his whip — it was one of those with the
long lash to it; you know what I mean — and
cut her to pieces with it, riding her down on
his pony when she tried to run, and heading
her off and lashing her around the legs and body
until she fell; then he rode on in his damn pink
coat to join the ladies at Mango's Drift, where
the meet was, and some Riffs found her bleeding
to death behind the sand-hills. That man held
a commission in the Emperor's own body-guard,
and that's what Tangier did for him"

Holcombe glanced at Meakim to see if he
would verify this, but Meakim's lips were
tightly pressed around his cigar, and his eyes
were half closed.

"And what was done about it?" Holcombe
asked, hoarsely.

Carroll laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Why, I tell you, and you whisper it to the
next man, and we pretend not to believe it, and
call the Riffs liars. As I say, we're none of us
here for our health, Holcombe, and a public
opinion that's manufactured by d£classee women
and men who have run off with somebody's
money and somebody's else's wife isn't strong
enough to try a man for beating his own slave."

23

THE EXILES

"But the Moors themselves?" protested Hoi-
combe. "And the Sultan? She's one of his
subjects, isn't she?"

"She's a woman, and women don't count for
much in the East, you know; and as for the
Sultan, he's an ignorant black savage. When
the English wanted to blow up those rocks off
the western coast, the Sultan wouldn't let them.
He said Allah had placed them there for some
good reason of His own, and it was not for man
to interfere with the works of God. That's the
sort of a Sultan he is." Carroll rose suddenly
and walked into the smoking-room, leaving the
two men looking at each other in silence.

"That's right," said Meakim, after a pause.
"He give it to you just as it is, but I never knew
him to kick about it before. We're a fair field
for missionary work, Mr. Holcombe, all of us —
at least, some of us are." He glanced up as
Carroll came back from out of the lighted room
with an alert, brisk step. His manner had
changed in his absence.

"Some of the ladies have come over for a bit
of supper," he said. "Mrs. Hornby and her
sister and Captain Reese. The chefs got some
birds for us, and I've put a couple of bottles on
ice. It will be like Del's— hey? A small hot
bird and a large cold bottle. They sent me out
to ask you to join us. They're in our rooms."

24

THE EXILES

Meakim rose leisurely and lit a fresh cigar, but
Holcombe moved uneasily in his chair. "You'll
come, won't you?" Carroll asked. "I'd like
you to meet my wife."

Holcombe rose irresolutely and looked at his
watch. "I'm afraid it's too late for me," he
said, without raising his face. "You see, I'm
here for my health. I "

"I beg your pardon," said Carroll, sharply.

"Nonsense, Carroll!" said Holcombe. "I
didn't mean that. I meant it literally. I can't
risk midnight suppers yet. My doctor's orders
are to go to bed at nine, and it's past twelve
now. Some other time, if you'll be so good;
but it's long after my bedtime, and "

"Oh, certainly," said Carroll, quietly, as he
turned away. "Are you coming, Meakim?"

Meakim lifted his half-empty glass from the
table and tasted it slowly until Carroll had left
them, then he put the glass down, and glanced
aside to where Holcombe sat looking out over
the silent city. Holcombe raised his eyes and
stared at him steadily. t

"Mr. Holcombe — " the fugitive began.

"Yes," replied the lawyer.

Meakim shook his head. "Nothing," he
said. "Good-night, sir."

Holcombe's rooms were on the floor above
Carroll's, and the laughter of the latter's guests

25

THE EXILES

and the tinkling of glasses and silver came to
him as he stepped out upon his balcony. But
for this the night was very still. The sea beat
leisurely on the rocks, and the waves ran up
the sandy coast, with a sound as of some one
sweeping. The music of women's laughter came
up to him suddenly, and he wondered hotly if
they were laughing at him. He assured him
self that it was a matter of indifference to him
if they were. And with this he had a wish that
they would not think of him as holding himself
aloof. One of the women began to sing to a
guitar, and to the accompaniment of this a man
and a young girl came out upon the balcony
below, and spoke to each other in low, earnest
tones, which seemed to carry with them the
feeling of a caress. Holcombe could not hear
what they said, but he could see the curve of
the woman's white shoulders and the light of
her companion's cigar as he leaned upon the
rail with his back to the moonlight and looked
into her face. Holcombe felt a sudden touch
of loneliness and of being very far from home.
He shivered slightly as though from the cold,
and stepping inside closed the window gently
behind him.

Although Holcombe met Carroll several times
during the following day, the latter obviously
avoided him, and it was not until late in the

26

THE EXILES

afternoon that Holcombe was given a chance
to speak to him again. Carroll was coming
down the only street on a run, jumping from
one rough stone to another, and with his face
lighted up with excitement. He hailed Hoi-
combe from a distance with a wave of the hand.
" There's an American man-of-war in the bay,"
he cried; "one of the new ones. We saw her
flag from the hotel. Come on!" Holcombe
followed as a matter of course, as Carroll evi
dently expected that he would, and they reached
the end of the landing-pier together, just as the
ship of war ran up and broke the square red
flag of Morocco from her main-mast and fired
her salute.

"They'll be sending a boat in by-and-by,"
said Carroll, "and we'll have a talk with the
men." His enthusiasm touched his companion
also, and the sight of the floating atom of the
great country that was his moved him strongly,
as though it were a personal message from home.
It came to him like the familiar stamp, and a
familiar handwriting on a letter in a far-away
/ land, and made him feel how dear his own
country was to him and how much he needed
it. They were leaning side by side upon the
rail watching the ship's screws turning the
blue waters white, and the men running about
the deck, and the blue-coated figures on the

27

THE EXILES

bridge. Holcombe turned to point out the
vessel's name to Carroll, and found that his
companion's eyes were half closed and filled
with tears.

Carroll laughed consciously and coughed.
"We kept it up a bit too late last night," he
said, "and I'm feeling nervous this morning,
and the sight of the flag and those boys from
home knocked me out." He paused for a
moment, frowning through his tears and with
his brow drawn up into many wrinkles. "It's
a terrible thing, Holcombe," he began again,
fiercely, "to be shut off from all of that."
He threw out his hand with a sudden ges
ture toward the man-of-war. Holcombe looked
down at the water and laid his hand lightly
on his companion's shoulder. Carroll drew
away and shook his head. "I don't want
any sympathy," he said, kindly. "I'm not
crying the baby act. But you don't know,
and I don't believe anybody else knows, what
I've gone through and what I've suffered.
You don't like me, Holcombe, and you don't
like my class, but I want to tell you something
about my coming here. I want you to set
them right about it at home. And I don't care
whether it interests you or not," he said, with
quick offense; "I want you to listen. It's
about my wife."

28

THE EXILES

Holcombe bowed his head gravely.

"You got Thatcher his divorce," CarrvII
continued. "And you know that he would
never have got it but for me, and that every
body expected that I would marry Mrs. That
cher when the thing was over. And I didn't,
and everybody said I was a blackguard, and I
was. It was bad enough before, but I made it
worse by not doing the only thing that could
make it any better. Why I didn't do it I don't
know. I had some grand ideas of reform about
that time, I think, and I thought I owed my
people something, and that by not making Mrs.
Thatcher my mother's daughter I would be
saving her and my sisters. It was remorse, I
guess, and I didn't see things straight. I know
now what I should have done. Well, I left her
and she went her own way, and a great many
people felt sorry for her, and were good to her
— not your people, nor my people; but enough
were good to her to make her see as much of
the world as she had used to. She never loved
Thatcher, and she never loved any of the men
you brought into that trial except one, and he
treated her like a cur. That was myself.
Well, what with trying to please my family,
and loving Alice Thatcher all the time and not
seeing her, and hating her too for bringing me
into all that notoriety — for I blamed the woman,

29

THE EXILES

of course, as a man always will — I got to drink
ing, and then this scrape came and I had to
run. I don't care anything about that row
now, or what you believe about it. I'm here,
shut off from my home, and that's a worse
punishment than any damn lawyers can in
vent. And the man's well again. He saw I
was drunk; but I wasn't so drunk that I didn't
know he was trying to do me, and I pounded
him just as they say I did, and I'm sorry now
I didn't kill him."

Holcombe stirred uneasily, and the man at his
side lowered his voice and went on more calmly:

"If I hadn't been a gentleman, Holcombe, or
if it had been another cabman he'd fought with,
there wouldn't have been any trouble about it.
But he thought he could get big money out of
me, and his friends told him to press it until he
was paid to pull out, and I hadn't the money,
and so I had to break bail and run. Well,
you've seen the place. You've been here long
enough to know what it's like, and what I've
had to go through. Nobody wrote me, and
nobody came to see me; not one of my own
sisters even, though they've been in the Riviera
all this spring — not a day's journey away.
Sometimes a man turned up that I knew, but
it was almost worse than not seeing any one.
It only made me more homesick when he'd

30

THE EXILES

gone. And for weeks I used to walk up and
down that beach there alone late in the night,
until I got to thinking that the waves were
talking to me, and I got queer in my head. I
had to fight it just as I used to have to fight
against whiskey, and to talk fast so that I
wouldn't think. And I tried to kill myself
hunting, and only got a broken collar-bone for
my pains. Well, all this time Alice was living
in Paris and New York. I heard that some
English captain was going to marry her, and
then I read in the Paris Herald that she was
settled in the American colony there, and one
day it gave a list of the people who'd been to
a reception she gave. She could go where she
pleased, and she had money in her own right,
you know; and she was being revenged on me
every day. And I was here knowing it, and
loving her worse than I ever loved anything on
earth, and having lost the right to tell her so,
and not able to go to her. Then one day some
chap turned up from here and told her about me,
and about how miserable I was, and how well I
was being punished. He thought it would
please her, I suppose. I don't know who he
was, but I guess he was in love with her himself.
And then the papers had it that I was down
with the fever here, and she read about it. I
was ill for a time, and I hoped it was going to

THE EXILES

carry me off decently, but I got up in a week
or two, and one day I crawled down here where
we're standing now to watch the boat come in.
I was pretty weak from my illness, and I was
bluer than I had ever been, and I didn't see
anything but blackness and bitterness for me
> anywhere. I turned around when the passen
gers reached the pier, and I saw a woman
coming up those stairs. Her figure and her
shoulders were so like Alice's that my heart
went right up into my throat, and I couldn't
breathe for it. I just stood still staring, and
when she reached the top of the steps she looked
up, breathing with the climb, and laughing;
and she says, 'Lloyd, I've come to see you.'
And I — I was that lonely and weak that I
grabbed her hand, and leaned back against the
railing, and cried there before the whole of them.
I don't think she expected it exactly, because
she didn't know what to do, and just patted
me on the shoulder, and said, 'I thought I'd
run down to cheer you up a bit; and I've
brought Mrs. Scott with me to chaperon us.'
And I said, without stopping to think: 'You
wouldn't have needed any chaperon, Alice, if
I hadn't been a cur and a fool. If I had only
asked what I can't ask of you now'; and, Hoi-
combe, she flushed just like a little girl, and
laughed, and said, 'Oh, will you, Lloyd?' And

THE EXILES

you see that ugly iron chapel up there, with
the corrugated zinc roof and the wooden cross
on it, next to the mosque? Well, that's where
we went first, right from this wharf before I let
her go to a hotel, and old Ridley, the English
rector, he married us, and we had a civil mar
riage too. That's what she did for me. She
had the whole wide globe to live in, and she
gave it up to come to Tangier, because I had
no other place but Tangier, and she's made my
life for me, and I'm happier here than I ever
was before anywhere, and sometimes I think —
I hope — that she is, too." Carroll's lips moved
slightly, and his hands trembled on the rail.
He coughed, and his voice was gentler when he
spoke again. "And so," he added, "that's why
I felt it last night when you refused to meet
her. You were right, I know, from your way
of thinking, but we've grown careless down
here, and we look at things differently."

Holcombe did not speak, but put his arm
across the other's shoulder, and this time Car
roll did not shake it off. Holcombe pointed
with his hand to a tall, handsome woman with
heavy yellow hair who was coming toward
them, with her hands in the pockets of her
reefer. " There is Mrs. Carroll now," he said.
"Won't you present me, and then we can row
out and see the man-of-war?"

33

II

THE officers returned their visit during the
day, and the American Consul-General asked
them all to a reception the following afternoon.
The entire colony came to this, and Holcombe
met many people, and drank tea with several
ladies in riding-habits, and iced drinks with
all of the men. He found it very amusing, and
the situation appealed strongly to his somewhat
latent sense of humor. That evening in writing
to his sister he told of his rapid recovery in
health, and of the possibility of his returning to
civilization.

" There was a reception this afternoon at the
ConsuI-GeneraPs," he wrote, "given to the offi
cers of our man-of-war, and I found myself in
some rather remarkable company. The Consul
himself has become rich by selling his protection
for two hundred dollars to every wealthy Moor
who wishes to escape the forced loans which the
Sultan is in the habit of imposing on the faith
ful. For five hundred dollars he will furnish
any one of them with a piece of stamped paper
accrediting him as minister plenipotentiary from
the United States to the Sultan's court. Of

34

THE EXILES

course the Sultan never receives them, and what
ever object they may have had in taking the long
journey to Fez is never accomplished. Some day
some one of them will find out how he has been
tricked, and will return to have the Consul
assassinated. This will be a serious loss to our
diplomatic service. The Consul's wife is a fat
German woman who formerly kept a hotel
here. Her brother has it now, and runs it as
an annex to a gambling-house. Pat Meakim,
the Police Commissioner that I indicted, but
who jumped his bail, introduced me at the re
ception to the men, with apparently great self-
satisfaction, as 'the pride of the New York
Bar/ and Mrs. Carroll, for whose husband I
obtained a divorce, showed her gratitude by
presenting me to the ladies. It was a dis
tinctly Gilbertian situation, and the people to
whom they introduced me were quite as pic
turesquely disreputable as themselves. So you

see "

1 Holcombe stopped here and read over what
he had written, and then tore up the letter.
The one he sent in its place said he was getting
better, but that the climate was not so mild as
he had expected it would be.

Holcombe engaged the entire first floor of
the hotel the next day, and entertained the
officers and the residents at breakfast, and the

35

THE EXILES

Admiral made a speech and said how grateful
it was to him and to his officers to find that
wherever they might touch, there were some
few Americans ready to welcome them as the
representatives of the flag they all so unselfishly
loved, and of the land they still so proudly
called "home." Carroll, turning his wine-glass
slowly between his fingers, raised his eyes to
catch Holcombe's, and winked at him from
behind the curtain of the smoke of his cigar,
and Holcombe smiled grimly, and winked back,
with the result that Meakim, who had inter
cepted the signalling, choked on his champagne,
and had to be pounded violently on the back.
Holcombe's breakfast established him as a man
of means and one who could entertain properly,
and after that his society was counted upon
for every hour of the day. He offered money
as prizes for the ship's crew to row and swim
after, he gave a purse for a cross-country pony
race, open to members of the Calpe and Tangier
hunts, and organized picnics and riding parties
innumerable. He was forced at last to hire a
soldier to drive away the beggars when he
walked abroad. He found it easy to be rich
in a place where he was given over two hundred
copper coins for an English shilling, and he
distributed his largesses recklessly and with
a lack of discrimination entirely opposed to

36

THE EXILES

the precepts of his organized charities at home.
He found it so much more amusing to throw a
handful of coppers to a crowd of fat naked
children than to write a check for the Society
for Suppression of Cruelty to the same bene
ficiaries.

"You shouldn't give those fellows money,'*
the Consul-General once remonstrated with
him; "the fact that they're blind is only a
proof that they have been thieves. When they
catch a man stealing here they hold his head
back, and pass a hot iron in front of his eyes.
That's why the lids are drawn taut that way.
You shouldn't encourage them."

"Perhaps they're not all thieves," said the
District Attorney, cheerfully, as he hit the circle
around him with a handful of coppers; "but
there is no doubt about it that they're all blind.
Which is the more to be pitied," he asked the
Consul-General, "the man who has still to be
found out and who can see, or the one who has
been exposed and who is blind?"

"How should he know?" said Carroll, laugh
ing. "He's never been blind, and he still holds
his job."

"I don't think that's very funny," said the
ConsuI-General.

A week of pig-sticking came to end Hoi-
combe's stay in Tangier, and he threw himself

37

THE EXILES

into it and into the freedom of its life with a
zest that made even the Englishman speak of
him as a good fellow. He chanced to overhear
this, and stopped to consider what it meant.
No one had ever called him a good fellow at
home, but then his life had not offered him the
chance to show what sort of a good fellow he
might be, and as Judge Holcombe's son certain
things had been debarred him. Here he was
only the richest tourist since Farwell, the dia
mond smuggler from Amsterdam, had touched
there in his yacht.

The week of boar-hunting was spent out-of-
doors, on horseback, and in tents; the women
in two wide circular ones, and the men in an
other, with a mess tent, which they shared in
common, pitched between them. They had
only one change of clothes each, one wet and
one dry, and they were in the saddle from
nine in the morning until late at night, when
they gathered in a wide circle around the wood-
fire and played banjoes and listened to stories.
Holcombe grew as red as a sailor, and jumped
his horse over gaping crevasses in the hard
sun-baked earth as recklessly as though there
were nothing in this world so well worth sacri
ficing one's life for as to be the first in at a dumb
brute's death. He was on friendly terms with
them all now — with Miss Terrill, the young girl

38

THE EXILES

who had been awakened by night and told to
leave Monte Carlo before daybreak, and with
Mrs. Darhah, who would answer to Lady Taun-
ton if so addressed, and with Andrews, the Scotch
bank clerk, and OIlid the boy officer from
Gibraltar, who had found some difficulty in
making the mess account balance. They were
all his very good friends, and he was especially
courteous and attentive to Miss Terrill's wants
and interests, and fixed her stirrup and once
let her pass him to charge the boar in his place.
She was a silently distant young woman, and
strangely gentle for one who had had to leave
a place, and such a place, between days; and
her hair, which was very fine and light, ran
away from under her white helmet in discon
nected curls. At night, Holcombe used to
watch her from out of the shadow when the
firelight lit up the circle and the tips of the
palms above them, and when the story-teller's
voice was accompanied by bursts of occasional
laughter from the dragomen in the grove be
yond, and the stamping and neighing of the
horses at their pickets, and the unceasing chorus
of the insect life about them. She used to sit
on one of the rugs with her hands clasped about
her knees, and with her head resting on Mrs.
Hornby's broad shoulder, looking down into
the embers of the fire, and with the story of

39

THE EXILES

her life written on her girPs face as irrevocably
as though old age had set its seal there. Hoi-
combe was kind to them all now, even to Mea-
kim, when that gentleman rode leisurely out
to the camp with the mail and the latest Paris
Herald, which was their one bond of union
with the great outside world.

Carroll sat smoking his pipe one night, and
bending forward over the fire to get its light on
the pages of the latest copy of this paper. Sud
denly he dropped it between his knees. "I
say, Holcombe," he cried, "here's news! Win-
throp Allen has absconded with three hundred
thousand dollars, and no one knows where."

Holcombe was sitting on the other side of the
fire, prying at the rowel of his spur with a hunt
ing-knife. He raised his head and laughed.
" Another good man gone wrong, hey?" he said.

Carroll lowered the paper slowly to his knee
and stared curiously through the smoky light
to where Holcombe sat intent on the rowel of
his spur. It apparently absorbed his entire
attention, and his last remark had been an un
consciously natural one. Carroll smiled grimly
as he folded the paper across his knee. "Now
are the mighty fallen, indeed," he murmured.
He told Meakim of it a few minutes later, and
they both marvelled. "It's just as I told him,
isn't it, and he wouldn't believe me. It's the

40

THE EXILES

place and the people. Two weeks ago he would
have raged. Why, Meakim, you know Allen
— Winthrop Allen? He's one of Holcombe's
own sort; older than he is, but one of his own
people; belongs to the same clubs; and to the
same family, I think, and yet Harry took it
just as a matter of course, with no more interest
than if I'd said that Allen was going to be
married."

Meakim gave a low, comfortable laugh of
content. "It makes me smile," he chuckled,
"every time I think of him the day he came up
them stairs. He scared me half to death, he
did, and then he says, just as stiff as you please,
'If you'll leave me alone, Mr. Meakim, I'll
not trouble you.' And now it's 'Meakim this/
and 'Meakim that,' and 'have a drink, Meakim/
just as thick as thieves. I have to laugh when
ever I think of it now. 'If you'll leave me
alone, I'll not trouble you, Mr. Meakim."

Carroll pursed his lips and looked up at the
broad expanse of purple heavens with the white
stars shining through. "It's rather a pity, too,
in a way," he said, slowly. "He was all the
Public Opinion we had, and now that he's
thrown up the part, why "

The pig-sticking came to an end finally, and
Holcombe distinguished himself by taking his
first fall, and under romantic circumstances.

41

THE EXILES

He was in an open place, with Mrs. Carroll at
the edge of the brush to his right, and Miss
Terrill guarding any approach from the left.
They were too far apart to speak to one another,
and sat quite still and alert to any noise as the
beaters closed in around them. There was a
sharp rustle in the reeds, and the boar broke
out of it some hundred feet ahead of Holcombe.
He went after it at a gallop, headed it off, and
ran it fairly on his spear point as it came toward
him; but as he drew his lance clear his horse
came down, falling across him, and for the in
stant knocking him breathless. It was all over
in a moment. He raised his head to see the
boar turn and charge him; he saw where his
spear point had torn the lower lip from the long
tusks, and that the blood was pouring down its
flank. He tried to draw out his legs, but the
pony lay fairly across him, kicking and strug
gling, and held him in a vise. So he closed his
eyes and covered his head with his arms, and
crouched in a heap waiting. There was the
quick beat of a pony's hoofs on the hard soil,
and the rush of the boar within a foot of his
head, and when he looked up he saw Miss Ter-
rill twisting her pony's head around to charge
the boar again, and heard her shout, "Let me
have him!" to Mrs. Carroll.

Mrs. Carroll came toward Holcornbe with
42

THE EXILES

her spear pointed dangerously high; she stopped
at his side and drew in her rein sharply. "Why
don't you get up? Are you hurt?" she said.
"Wait; lie still," she commanded, "or he'll
tramp on you. I'll get him off." She slipped
from her saddle and dragged Holcombe's pony
to his feet. Holcombe stood up unsteadily,
pale through his tan from the pain of the fall
and the moment of fear.

"That was nasty," said Mrs. Carroll, with a
quick breath. She was quite as pale as he.

Holcombe wiped the dirt from his hair and
the side of his face, and looked past her to
where Miss Terrill was surveying the dead boar
from her saddle, while her pony reared and
shied, quivering with excitement beneath her.
Holcombe mounted stiffly and rode toward
her. "I am very much obliged to you," he
said. " If you hadn't come — "

The girl laughed shortly, and shook her head
without looking at him. "Why, not at all,"
she interrupted, quickly. "I would have come
just as fast if you hadn't been there." She
turned in her saddle and looked at him frankly.
"I was glad to see you go down," she said, "for
it gave me the first good chance .I've had. Are
you hurt?"

Holcombe drew himself up stiffly, regardless
of the pain in his neck and shoulder. "No,

43

THE EXILES

I'm all right, thank you," he answered. "At
the same time," he called after her as she moved
away to meet the others, "you did save me from
being torn up, whether you like it or not."

Mrs. Carroll was looking after the girl with
observant, comprehending eyes. She turned to
Holcombe with a smile. "There are a few
things you have still to learn, Mr. Holcombe,"
she said, bowing in her saddle mockingly, and
dropping the point of her spear to him as an
adversary does in salute. "And perhaps," she
added, "it is just as well that there are."

Holcombe trotted after her in some concern.
"I wonder what she means?" he said. "I
wonder if I were rude?"

The pig-sticking ended with a long luncheon
before the ride back to town, at which every
thing that could be eaten or drunk was put on
the table, in order, as Meakim explained, that
there would be less to carry back. He met
Holcombe that same evening after the caval
cade had reached Tangier as the latter came
down the stairs of the Albion. Holcombe was
in fresh raiment and cleanly shaven, and with
the radiant air of one who had had his first com
fortable bath in a week.

Meakim confronted him with a smiling coun
tenance. "Who do you think come to-night
on the mail-boat?" he asked.

44

THE EXILES

"I don't know. Who?"

" Winthrop Allen, with six trunks," said Mea-
kim, with the triumphant air of one who brings
important news.

"No, really now," said Holcombe, laughing.
"The old hypocrite! I wonder what he'll say
when he sees me. I wish I could stay over an
other boat, just to remind him of the last time
we met. What a fraud he is ! It was at the
club, and he was congratulating me on my
noble efforts in the cause of justice, and all that
sort of thing. He said I was a public bene
factor. And at that time he must have already
speculated away about half of what he had
stolen of other people's money. I'd like to
tease him about it."

"What trial was that?" asked Meakim.

Holcombe laughed and shook his head as he
moved on down the stairs. "Don't ask embar
rassing questions, Meakim," he said. "It was
one you won't forget in a hurry."

"Oh !" said Meakim, with a grin. "All right.
There's some mail for you in the office."

"Thank you," said Holcombe.

A few hours later Carroll was watching the
roulette wheel in the gambling-hall of the Isa
bella when he saw Meakim come in out of the
darkness, and stand staring in the doorway,

45

THE EXILES

blinking at the lights and mopping his face.
He had been running, and was visibly excited.
Carroll crossed over to him and pushed him
out into the quiet of the terrace. "What is
it?" he asked.

"Have you seen Holcombe?" Meakim de
manded in reply.

"Not since this afternoon. Why?"

Meakim breathed heavily, and fanned himself
with his hat. "Well, he's after Winthrop Allen,
that's all," he panted. "And when he finds
him there's going to be a muss. The boy's
gone crazy. He's not safe."

"Why? What do you mean? What's Allen
done to him?"

"Nothing to him, but to a friend of his. He
got a letter to-night in the mail that came with
Allen. It was from his sister. She wrote him
all the latest news about Allen, and give him
fits for robbing an old lady who's been kind to
her. She wanted that Holcombe should come
right back and see what could be done about it.
She didn't know, of course, that Allen was com
ing here. The old lady kept a private school
on Fifth Avenue, and Allen had charge of her
savings."

"What is her name?" Carroll asked.

"Field, I think. Martha Field was "

"The dirty blackguard !" cried Carroll. He
turned sharply away and returned again to

46

THE EXILES

seize Meakim's arm. "Go on," he demanded.
"What did she say?"

"You know her too, do you?" said Meakim,
shaking his head sympathetically. "Well, that's
all. She used to teach his sister. She seems to
be a sort of fashionable "

"I know," said Carroll, roughly. "She
taught my sister. She teache? everybody's
sister. She's the sweetest, simplest old soul
that ever lived. Holcombe's dead right to be
angry. She almost lived at their house when
his sister was ill."

"Tut! you don't say?" commented Meakim,
gravely. "Well, his sister's pretty near crazy
about it. He give me the letter to read. It got
me all stirred up. It was just writ in blood.
She must be a fine girl, his sister. She says this
Miss Martha's money was the last thing Allen
took. He didn't use her stuff to speculate with,
but cashed it in just before he sailed and took
it with him for spending-money. His sister
says she's too proud to take help, and she's too
old to work."

"How much did he take?"

"Sixty thousand. She's been saving for over
forty years."

Carroll's mind took a sudden turn. "And
Holcombe?" he demanded, eagerly. "What is
he going to do? Nothing silly, I hope."

"Well, that's just it. That's why I come to
47

THE EXILES

find you," Meakim answered, uneasily. "I
don't want him to qualify for no Criminal
Stakes. I got no reason to love him either —
But you know — " he ended, impotently.

"Yes, I understand," said Carroll. "That's
what I meant. Confound the boy, why didn't
he stay in his law courts! What did he say?"

"Oh, he just raged around. He said he'd
tell Allen there was an extradition treaty that
Allen didn't know about, and that if Allen
didn't give him the sixty thousand he'd put it
in force and make him go back and stand trial."

"Compounding a felony, is he?"

"No, nothing of the sort," said Meakim, in
dignantly. "There isn't any extradition treaty,
so he wouldn't be doing anything wrong except
lying a bit."

"Well, it's blackmail, anyway."

"What, blackmail a man like Allen? Huh!
He's fair game, if there ever was any. But it
won't work with him, that's what I'm afraid
of. He's too cunning to be taken in by it, he
is. He had good legal advice before he came
here, or he wouldn't have come."

Carroll was pacing up and down the terrace.
He stopped and spoke over his shoulder. " Does
Holcombe think Allen has the money with
him?" he asked.

"Yes, he's sure of it. That's what makes
48

THE EXILES

him so keen. He says Allen wouldn't dare
bank it at Gibraltar, because if he ever went
over there to draw on it he would get caught,
so he must have brought it with him here. And
he got here so late that Holcombe believes it's
in Allen's rooms now, and he's like a dog that
smells a rat, after it. Allen wasn't in when
he went up to his room, and he's started out
hunting for him, and if he don't find him I
shouldn't be a bit surprised if he broke into
the room and just took it."

"For God's sake!" cried Carroll. "He
wouldn't do that?"

Meakim pulled and fingered at his heavy
watch-chain and laughed doubtfully. "I don't
know," he said. "He wouldn't have done it
three months ago, but he's picked up a great
deal since then — since he has been with us.
He's asking for Captain Reese, too."

"What's he want with that blackguard?'5
"I don't know; he didn't tell me."
"Come," said Carroll, quickly. "We must
stop him." He ran lightly down the steps of
the terrace to the beach, with Meakim waddling
heavily after him. "He's got too much at
stake, Meakim," he said, in half- apology, as
they tramped through the sand. "He mustn't
spoil it. We won't let him."

Holcombe had searched the circuit of Tangier's
49

THE EXILES

small extent with fruitless effort, his anger in
creasing momentarily and feeding on each fresh
disappointment. When he had failed to find
the man he sought in any place, he returned to
the hotel and pushed open the door of the
smoking-room as fiercely as though he meant
to take those within by surprise.

"Has Mr. Allen returned?" he demanded.
"Or Captain Reese?" The attendant thought
not, but he would go and see. "No," Hoi-
combe said, " I will look for myself." He sprang
up the stairs to the third floor, and turned down
a passage to a door at its farthest end. Here
he stopped and knocked gently. "Reese," he
called; "Reese!" There was no response to
his summons, and he knocked again, with more
impatience, and then cautiously turned the
handle of the door, and, pushing it forward,
stepped into the room. "Reese," he said,
softly, "its Holcombe. Are you here?" The
room was dark except for the light from the
hall, which shone dimly past him and fell upon
a gun-rack hanging on the wall opposite. Hoi-
combe hurried toward this and ran his hands
over it, and passed on quickly from that to the
mantel and the tables, stumbling over chairs
and riding-boots as he groped about, and trip
ping on the skin of some animal that lay
stretched upon the floor. He felt his way

50

THE EXILES

around the entire circuit of the room, and
halted near the door with an exclamation of
disappointment. By this time his eyes had
become accustomed to the darkness, and he
noted the white surface of the bed in a far corner
and ran quickly toward it, groping with his
hands about the posts at its head. He closed
his fingers with a quick gasp of satisfaction on
a leather belt that hung from it, heavy with
cartridges and a revolver that swung from its
holder. Holcombe pulled this out and jerked
back the lever, spinning the cylinder around
under the edge of his thumb. He felt the
grease of each cartridge as it passed under his
nail. The revolver was loaded in each chamber,
and Holcombe slipped it into the pocket of his
coat and crept out of the room, closing the door
softly behind him. He met no one in the hall
or on the stairs, and passed on quickly to a
room on the second floor. There was a light
in this room which showed through the transom
and under the crack at the floor, and there was
a sound of some one moving about within.
Holcombe knocked gently and waited.

The movement on the other side of the door
ceased, and after a pause a voice asked who was
there. Holcombe hesitated a second before an
swering, and then said, "It is a servant, sir,
with a note for Mr. Allen."

51

THE EXILES

At the sound of some one moving toward the
door from within, Holcombe threw his shoulder
against the panel and pressed forward. There
was the click of the key turning in the lock and
of the withdrawal of a bolt, and the door was
partly opened. Holcombe pushed it back with
his shoulder, and, stepping quickly inside, closed
it again behind him.

The man within, into whose presence he had
forced himself, confronted him with a look of
some alarm, which increased in surprise as he
recognized his visitor. "Why, Holcombe!" he
exclaimed. He looked past him as though ex
pecting some one else to follow. "I thought it
was a servant," he said.

Holcombe made no answer, but surveyed the
other closely, and with a smile of content. The
man before him was of erect carriage, with white
hair and whiskers, cut after an English fashion
which left the mouth and chin clean shaven.
He was of severe and dignified appearance, and
though standing as he was in dishabille still
gave in his bearing the look of an elderly gentle
man who had lived a self-respecting, well-cared-
for, and well-ordered life. The room about him
was littered with the contents of opened trunks
and uncorded boxes. He had been interrupted
in the task of unpacking and arranging these pos
sessions, but he stepped unresentfully toward

52

THE EXILES

<he bed where his coat lay, and pulled it on,
feeling at the open collar of his shirt, and giving
a glance of apology toward the disorder of the
apartment.

"The night was so warm," he said, in explana
tion. "I have been trying to get things to
rights. I — ' He was speaking in some ob
vious embarrassment, and looked uncertainly
toward the intruder for help. But Holcombe
made no explanation, and gave him no greeting.
"I heard in the hotel that you were here," the
other continued, still striving to cover up the
difficulty of the situation, "and I am sorry to
hear that you are going so soon." He stopped,
and as Holcombe still continued smiling, drew
himself up stiffly. The look on his face hard
ened into one of offended dignity.

"Really, Mr. Holcombe," he said, sharply,
and with strong annoyance in his tone, "if you
have forced yourself into this room for no other
purpose than to stand there and laugh, I must
ask you to leave it. You may not be conscious
of it, but your manner is offensive." He turned
impatiently to the table, and began rearranging
the papers upon it. Holcombe shifted the
weight of his body as it rested against the door
from one shoulder-blade to the other and closed
his hands over the door-knob behind him.

"I had a letter to-night from home about

53

THE EXILES

you, Allen," he began, comfortably. "The per
son who wrote it was anxious that I should re
turn to New York, and set things working in
the District Attorney's office in order to bring
you back. It isn't you they want so much

00

do
(t

How dare you?" cried the embezzler,
sternly, in the voice with which one might in
terrupt another in words of shocking blasphemy.

"How dare I what?" asked Holcombe.

"How dare you refer to my misfortune?
You of all others — " He stopped, and looked
at his visitor with flashing eyes. "I thought
you a gentleman," he said, reproachfully; "I
thought you a man of the world, a man who in
spite of your office, official position, or, rather,
on account of it, could feel and understand
the — a — terrible position in which I am placed,
and that you would show consideration. In
stead of which," he cried, his voice rising in
indignation, "you have come apparently to
mock at me. If the instinct of a gentleman
does not teach you to be silent, I shall have to
force you to respect my feelings. You can
leave the room, sir. Now, at once." He
pointed with his arm at the door against which
Holcombe was leaning, the fingers of his out
stretched hand trembling visibly.

"Nonsense. Your misfortune! What rot!"
54

THE EXILES

Holcombe growled resentfully. His eyes wan
dered around the room as though looking for
some one who might enjoy the situation with
him, and then returned to Allen's face. "You
mustn't talk like that to me," he said, in serious
remonstrance. "A man who has robbed people
who trusted him for three years, as you have
done, can't afford to talk of his misfortune.
You were too long about it, Allen. You had
too many chances to put it back. You've no
feelings to be hurt. Besides, if you have, I'm
in a hurry, and I've not the time to consider
them. Now, what I want of you is — "

"Mr. Holcombe," interrupted the other, ear
nestly.

"Sir," replied the visitor.

"Mr. Holcombe/' began Allen, slowly, and
with impressive gravity, "I do not want any
words with you about this, or with any one else.
I am here owing to a combination of circum
stances which have led me through hopeless,
endless trouble. What I have gone through
with nobody knows. That is something no
one but I can ever understand. But that is
now at an end. I have taken refuge in flight
and safety, where another might have remained
and compromised and suffered; but I am a
weaker brother, and — as for punishment, my
own conscience, which has punished me so

55

THE EXILES

terribly in the past, will continue to do so in
the future. I am greatly to be pitied, Mr.
Holcombe, greatly to be pitied. And no one
knows that better than yourself. You know
the value of the position I held in New York
City, and how well I was suited to it, and it to
me. And now I am robbed of it all. I am an
exile in this wilderness. Surely, Mr. Holcombe,
this is not the place nor the time when you
should insult me by recalling the "

"You contemptible hypocrite," said Hol
combe, slowly. "What an ass you must think
I am! Now, listen to me."

"No, you listen to me," thundered the other.
He stepped menacingly forward, his chest heav
ing under his open shirt, and his fingers opening
and closing at his side. "Leave the room, I
tell you," he cried, "or I shall call the servants
and make you!" He paused with a short,
mocking laugh. "Who do you think I am?"
he asked; "a child that you can insult and gibe
at? Pm not a prisoner in the box for you to<
browbeat and bully, Mr. District Attorney.
You seem to forget that I am out of your
jurisdiction now."

He waited, and his manner seemed to invite
Holcombe to make some angry answer to his
tone, but the young man remained grimly
silent.

THE EXILES

"You are a very important young person at
home, Harry," Allen went on, mockingly.
"But New York State laws do not reach as
far as Africa."

"Quite right; that's it exactly," said Hoi-
combe, with cheerful alacrity. "I'm glad you
have grasped the situation so soon. That
makes it easier for me. Now, what I have been
trying to tell you is this. I received a letter
about you to-night. It seems that before leav
ing New York you converted bonds and mort
gages belonging to Miss Martha Field, which
she had intrusted to you, into ready money.
And that you took this money with you. Now,
as this is the first place you have stopped since
leaving New York, except Gibraltar, where you
could not have banked it, you must have it
with you now, here in this town, in this hotel,
possibly in this room. What else you have
belonging to other poor devils and corporations
does not concern me. It's yours as far as I
mean to do anything about it. But this sixty
thousand dollars which belongs to Miss Field,
who is the best, purest, and kindest woman I
have ever known, and who has given away more
money than you ever stole, is going back
with me to-morrow to New York." Hoi-
combe leaned forward as he spoke, and rapped
with his knuckles on the table. Allen eon-

57

THE EXILES

fronted him in amazement, in which there was
not so much surprise at what the other threat
ened to do as at the fact that it was he who had
proposed doing it.

"I don't understand," he said, slowly, with
the air of a bewildered child.

" It's plain enough," replied the other, impa
tiently. "I tell you I want sixty thousand
dollars of the money you have with you. You
can understand that, can't you?"

"But how?" expostulated Allen. "You don't
mean to rob me, do you, Harry?" he asked,
with a laugh.

"You're a very stupid person for so clever a
one," Holcombe said, impatiently. "You must
give me sixty thousand dollars — and if you
don't, I'll take it. Come, now, where is it —
in that box?" He pointed with his finger
toward a square travelling-case covered with
black leather that stood open on the table
filled with papers and blue envelopes.

"Take it!" exclaimed Allen. "You, Henry
Holcombe? Is it you who are speaking? Do
I hear you?" He looked at Holcombe with
eyes full of genuine wonder and a touch of fear.
As he spoke his hand reached out mechan
ically and drew the leather-bound box toward
him.

"Ah, it is in that box, then," said Holcombe,

THE EXILES

in a quiet, grave tone. "Now count it out, and
be quick."

"Are you drunk?" cried the other, fiercely.
"Do you propose to turn highwayman and
thief? What do you mean?" Holcombe
reached quickly across the table toward the
box, but the other drew it back, snapping the
lid down, and hugging it close against his breast.
" If you move, Holcombe," he cried, in a voice
of terror and warning, "I'll call the people of
the house and — and expose you."

" Expose me, you idiot," returned Holcombe,
fiercely. "How dare you talk to me like that !"

Allen dragged the table more evenly between
them, as a general works on his defenses even
while he parleys with the enemy. "It's you
who are the idiot!" he cried. "Suppose you
could overcome me, which would be harder than
you think, what are you going to do with the
money? Do you suppose I'd let you leave this
country with it? Do you imagine for a moment
that I would give it up without raising my
hand? I'd have you dragged to prison from
your bed this very night, or I'd have you seized
as you set your foot upon the wharf. I would
appeal to our ConsuI-General. As far as he
knows, I am as worthy of protection as you are
yourself, and, failing him, I'd appeal to the law
of the land." He stopped for want of breath,

59

THE EXILES

and then began again with the air of one who
finds encouragement in the sound of his own
voice. "They may not understand extradition
here, Holcombe," he said, "but a thief is a thief
all the world over. What you may be in New
York isn't going to help you here; neither is
your father's name. To these people you would
be only a hotel thief who forces his way into

other men's rooms at night and "

"You poor thing," interrupted Holcombe.
"Do you know where you are?" he demanded.
"You talk, Allen, as though we were within
sound of the cable-cars on Broadway. This
hotel is not the Brunswick, and this Consul-
General you speak of is another blackguard who
knows that a word from me at Washington, on
my return, or a letter from here would lose him
his place and his liberty. He's as much of a
rascal as any of them, and he knows that I
know it and that I may use that knowledge
He won't help you. And as for the law of the
land" — Holcombe's voice rose and broke in a
mocking laugh — "there is no law of the land.
That's why you re here! You are in a place
populated by exiles and outlaws like yourself,
who have preyed upon society until society has
turned and frightened each of them off like a
dog with his tail between his legs. Don't give
yourself confidence, Allen. That's all you are,

60

THE EXILES

that's all we are — two dogs fighting for a stolen
bone. The man who rules you here is an ig
norant negro, debauched and vicious and a
fanatic. He is shut off from every one, even
to the approach of a British ambassador. And
what do you suppose he cares for a dog of a
Christian like you, who has been robbed in a
hotel by another Christian? And these others.
Do you suppose they care? Call out — cry for
help, and tell them that you have half a million
dollars in this room, and they will fall on you
and strip you of every cent of it, and leave you
to walk the beach for work. Now, what are
you going to do? Will you give me the money
I want to take back where it belongs, or will
you call for help and lose it all?"

The two men confronted each other across
the narrow length of the table. The blood had
run to Holcombe's face, but the face of the other
was drawn and pale with fear.

:<You can't frighten me," he gasped, rallying
his courage with an effort of the will. "You
are talking nonsense. This is a respectable
hotel; it isn't a den of thieves. You are trying
to frighten me out of the money with your lies
and your lawyer's tricks, but you will find that
I am not so easily fooled. You are dealing with
a man, Holcombe, who suffered to get what he
has, and who doesn't mean to let it go without

61

THE EXILES

a fight for it. Come near me, I warn you, and
I shall call for help."

Holcombe backed slowly away from the table
and tossed up his hands with the gesture of one
who gives up his argument. "You will have it,
will you?" he muttered, grimly. "Very well,
you shall fight for it." He turned quickly and
drove in the bolt of the door and placed his
shoulders over the electric button in the wall.
"I have warned you," he said, softly. "I have
told you where you are, and that you have
nothing to expect from the outside. You are
absolutely in my power to do with as I please."
He stopped, and, without moving his eyes from
Allen's face, drew the revolver from the pocket
of his coat. His manner was so terrible that
Allen gazed at him, breathing faintly, and with
his eyes fixed in horrible fascination. " There
is no law," Holcombe repeated, softly. " There
is no help for you now or later. It is a question
of two men locked in a room with a table and
sixty thousand dollars between them. That is
the situation. Two men and sixty thousand
dollars. We have returned to first principles,
Allen. It is a man against a man, and there is
no Court of Appeal."

Allen's breath came back to him with a gasp,
as though he had been shocked with a sudden
downpour of icy water.

62

THE EXILES

"There is!" he cried. "There is a Court of
Appeal. For God's sake, wait. I appeal to
Henry Holcombe, to Judge Holcombe's son.
I appeal to your good name,- Harry, to your
fame in the world. Think what you are doing;
for the love of God, don't murder me. Pm a
criminal, I know, but not what you would be,
Holcombe; not that. You are mad or drunk.
You wouldn't, you couldn't do it. Think of
it ! You, Henry Holcombe. You."

The ringers of Holcombe's hand moved and
tightened around the butt of the pistol, the
sweat sprang from the pores of his palm. He
raised the revolver and pointed it. "My sin's
on my own head," he said. "Give me the
money."

The older man glanced fearfully back of him
at the open window, through which a sea breeze
moved the palms outside, so that they seemed
to whisper together as though aghast at the
scene before them. The window was three
stories from the ground, and Allen's eyes re
turned to the stern face of the younger man.
As they stood silent there came, to them the
sound of some one moving in the hall, and of
men's voices whispering together. Allen's face
lit with a sudden radiance of hope, and Hol
combe's arm moved uncertainly.

"I fancy," he said, in a whisper, "that those

63

THE EXILES

are my friends. They have some idea of my
purpose, and they have come to learn more.
If you call, I will let them in, and they will
strangle you into silence until I get the
money."

The two men eyed each other steadily, the
older seeming to weigh the possible truth of
Holcombe's last words in his mind. Holcombe
broke the silence in a lighter tone.

"Playing the policeman is a new role to me,"
he said, "and I warn you that I have but little
patience; and, besides, my hand is getting
tired, and this thing is at full cock."

Allen, for the first time, lowered the box upon
the table and drew from it a bundle of notes
bound together with elastic bandages. Hoi-
combe's eyes lighted as brightly at the sight as
though the notes were for his own private
pleasures in the future.

"Be quick!" he said. "I cannot be respon
sible for the men outside."

Allen bent over the money, his face drawing
into closer and sharper lines as the amount
grew, under his fingers, to the sum Holcombe
had demanded.

"Sixty thousand!" he said, in a voice of des
perate calm.

"Good!" whispered Holcombe. "Pass it
over to me. I hope I have taken the most

64

THE EXILES

of what you have," he said, as he shoved the
notes into his pocket; "but this is something.
Now I warn you," he added, as he lowered the
trigger of the revolver and put it out of sight,
"that any attempt to regain this will be futile.
I am surrounded by friends; no one knows you
or cares about you. I shall sleep in my room
to-night without precaution, for I know that
the money is now mine. Nothing you can do
will recall it. Your cue is silence and secrecy
as to what you have lost and as to what you
still have with you."

He stopped in some confusion, interrupted by
a sharp knock at the door and two voices calling
his name. Allen shrank back in terror.

:<You coward!" he hissed. :<You promised
me you'd be content with what you have."
Holcombe looked at him in amazement. "And
now your accomplices are to have their share,
too, are they?" the embezzler whispered,
fiercelv. "You lied to me; you mean to take
it all."

Holcombe, for an answer, drew back the bolt,
but so softly that the sound of his voice drowned
the noise it made.

"No, not to-night," he said, briskly, so that
the sound of his voice penetrated into the hall
beyond. "I mustn't stop any longer, I'm
keeping you up. It has been very pleasant to

THE EXILES

have heard all that news from home. It was
such a chance, my seeing you before I sailed.
Good-night." He paused and pretended to
listen. "No, Allen, I don't think it's a ser
vant," he said* "It's some of my friends
looking for me. This is my last night on shore,
you see." He threw open the door and con
fronted Meakim and Carroll as they stood in
some confusion in the dark hall. "Yes, it is
some of my friends," Holcombe continued.
"I'll be with you in a minute," he said to them.
Then he turned, and, crossing the room in their
sight, shook Allen by the hand, and bade him
good-night and good-by.

The embezzler's revulsion of feeling was so
keen and the relief so great that he was able to
smile as Holcombe turned and left him. "I
wish you a pleasant voyage," he said, faintly.

Then Holcombe shut the door on him, closing
him out from their sight. He placed his hands
on a shoulder of each of the two men and jumped
step by step down the stairs like a boy as they
descended silently in front of him. At the foot
of the stairs Carroll turned and confronted him
sternly, staring him in the face. Meakim at
one side eyed him curiously.

"Well?" said Carroll, with one hand upon
Holcombe' s wrist.

Holcombe shook his hand free, laughing.

66

THE EXILES

"Well," he answered, "I persuaded him to
make restitution."

"You persuaded him!" exclaimed Carroll,
impatiently. " How ? "

Holcombe's eyes avoided those of the two
inquisitors. He drew a long breath, and then
burst into a loud fit of hysterical laughter.
The two men surveyed him grimly. "I argued
with him, of course," said Holcombe, gayly.
"That is my business, man; you forget that I
am a District Attorney "

"We didn't forget it," said Carroll, fiercely.
"Did you? What did you do?"

Holcombe backed away up the stairs shaking
his head and laughing. "I shall never tell
you," he said. He pointed with his hand down
the second flight of stairs. "Meet me in the
smoking-room," he continued. " I will be there
in a minute, and we will have a banquet. Ask
the others to come. I have something to do
first."

The two men turned reluctantly away, and
continued on down the stairs without speaking
and with their faces filled with doubt. Hol
combe ran first to Reese's room and replaced
the pistol in its holder. He was trembling as
he threw the thing from him, and had barely
reached his own room and closed the door
when a sudden faintness overcame him. The

THE EXILES

weight he had laid on his nerves was gone and
the laughter had departed from his face. He
stood looking back at what he had escaped as
a man reprieved at the steps of the gallows
turns his head to glance at the rope he has
cheated. Holcombe tossed the bundle of notes
upon the table and took an unsteady step across
the room. Then he turned suddenly and threw
himself upon his knees and buried his face in
the pillow.

The sun rose the next morning on a cool,
beautiful day, and the Consul's boat, with the
American flag trailing from the stern, rose and
fell on the bluest of blue waters as it carried
Holcombe and his friends to the steamer's side.

"We are going to miss you very much,"
Mrs. Carroll said. "I hope you won't forget
to send us word of yourself."

Miss Terrill said nothing. She was leaning
over the side trailing her hand in the water,
and watching it run between her slim pink
fingers. She raised her eyes to find Holcombe
looking at her intently with a strange expression
of wistfulness and pity, at which she smiled
brightly back at him, and began to plan vi
vaciously with Captain Reese for a ride that
same afternoon.

They separated over the steamer's deck, and
Meakim, for the hundredth time, and in the

68

THE EXILES

lack of conversation which comes at such
moments, offered Holcombe a fresh cigar.

"But I have got eight of yours now," said
Holcombe.

"That's all right; put it in your pocket,"
said the Tammany chieftain, "and smoke it
after dinner. You'll need 'em. They're better
than those you'll get on the steamer, and they
never went through a custom-house."

Holcombe cleared his throat in some slight
embarrassment. "Is there anything I can do
for you in New York, Meakim?" he asked.
"Anybody I can see, or to whom I can deliver
a message?"

"No," said Meakim. "I write pretty often.
Don't you worry about me," he added, grate
fully. "I'll be back there some day myself,
when the law of limitation lets me."

Holcombe laughed. "Well," he said, "I'd
be glad to do something for you if you'd let me
know what you'd like."

Meakim put his hands behind his back and
puffed meditatively on his cigar, rolling it be
tween his lips with his tongue. Then he turned
it between his fingers and tossed the ashes over
the side of the boat. He gave a little sigh, and
then frowned at having done so. "I'll tell
you what you can do for me, Holcombe," he
said, smiling. "Some night I wish you would

69

THE EXILES

go down to Fourteenth Street, some night this
spring, when the boys are sitting out on the
steps in front of the Hall, and just take a drink
for me at Ed Lally's; just for luck. Will you?
That's what I'd like to do. I don't know
nothing better than Fourteenth Street of a
summer evening, with all the people crowding
into Pastor's on one side of the Hall, and the
Third Avenue L cars running by on the other.
That's a gay sight; ain't it now? With all
the girls coming in and out of Theiss's, and the
sidewalks crowded. One of them warm nights
when they have to have the windows open,
and you can hear the music in at Pastor's, and
the audience clapping their hands. That's
great, isn't it? Well," he laughed and shook
.his head. "I'll be back there some day, won't
I," he said, wistfully, "and hear it for myself.'*

"Carroll," said Holcombe, drawing the former
to one side, "suppose I see this cabman when I
reach home, and get him to withdraw the charge,
or agree not to turn up when it comes to trial."

Carroll's face clouded in an instant. "Now,
listen to me, Holcombe," he said. "You let
my dirty work alone. There's lots of my friends
who have nothing better to do than just that.
You have something better to do, and you
leave me and my rows to others. I like you
for what you are, and not for what you can

70

THE EXILES

do for me. I don't mean that I don't ap
preciate your offer, but it shouldn't have come
from an Assistant District Attorney to a fugitive
criminal."

"What nonsense!" said Holcombe.

"Don't say that; don't say that!" said
Carroll, quickly, as though it hurt him. "You
wouldn't have said it a month ago."

Holcombe eyed the other with an alert, confi
dent smile. "No, Carroll," he answered, "I
would not." He put his hand on the other's
shoulder with a suggestion in his manner of
his former self, and with a touch of patronage.
"I have learned a great deal in a month," he
said. "Seven battles were won in seven days
once. All my life I have been fighting causes,
Carroll, and principles. I have been working
with laws against law-breakers. I have never
yet fought a man. It was not poor old Mea-
kim, the individual, I prosecuted, but the
corrupt politician. Now, here I have been
thrown with men and women on as equal terms
as a crew of sailors cast away upon a desert
island. We were each a law unto himself.
And I have been brought face to face, and for
the first time in my life, not with principles of
conduct, not with causes, and not with laws,
but with my fellow men."

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA
CITY

THE day was cruelly hot, with unwarranted
gusts of wind which swept the red dust in fierce
eddies in at one end of Main Street and out at
the other, and waltzed fantastically across the
prairie. When they had passed, human beings
opened their eyes again to blink hopelessly at the
white sun, and swore or gasped, as their nature
moved them. There were very few human be
ings in the streets, either in Houston Avenue,
where there were dwelling-houses, or in the
business quarter on Main Street. They were all
at the new court-house, and every one possessed
of proper civic pride was either in the packed
court-room itself, or standing on the high steps
outside, or pacing the long, freshly calcimined
corridors, where there was shade and less dust.
It was an eventful day in the history of Zepata
City. The court-house had been long in coming,
the appropriation had been denied again and
again; but at last it stood a proud and hideous
fact, like a gray prison, towering above the
bare, undecorated brick stores and the frame
houses on the prairie around it, new, raw, and

72

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

cheap, from the tin statue on the dome to the
stucco round its base already cracking with
the sun. Piles of lumber and scaffolding and
the lime beds the builders had left still lay on
the unsodded square, and the bursts of wind
drove the shavings across it, as they had done
since the first day of building, when the Hon.
Horatio Macon, who had worked for the appro
priation, had laid the corner-stone and received
the homage of his constituents.

It seemed a particularly happy and appro
priate circumstance that the first business in
the new court-room should be of itself of an
important and momentous nature, something
that dealt not only with the present but with
the past of Zepata, and that the trial of so cele
brated an individual as Abe Barrow should open
the court-house with eclat, as Emma Abbott,
who had come all the way from San Antonio
to do it, had opened the new opera-house the
year before. The District Attorney had said
it would not take very long to dispose of Bar
row's case, but he had promised it would be an
interesting if brief trial, and the court-room
was filled even to the open windows, where
men sat crowded together, with the perspiration
running down their faces, and the red dust
settling and turning white upon their shoulders.

Abe Barrow, the prisoner, had been as closely

73

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

associated with the early history of Zepata as
Colonel Macon himself, and was as widely
known; he had killed in his day several of the
Zepata citizens, and two visiting brother-des
peradoes, and the corner where his gambling-
house had stood was still known as Barrow's
Corner, to the regret of the druggist who had
opened a shop there. Ten years before, the
murder of Deputy Sheriff Welsh had led him
to the penitentiary, and a month previous to
the opening of the new court-house he had
been freed, and arrested at the prison gate to
stand trial for the murder of Hubert Thompson.
The fight with Thompson had been a fair fight
— so those said who remembered it — and Thomp
son was a man they could well spare; but the
case against Barrow had been prepared during
his incarceration by the new and youthful Dis
trict Attorney, "Judge" Henry Harvey, and as
it offered a fitting sacrifice for the dedication
of the new temple of justice, the people were
satisfied and grateful.

The court-room was as bare of ornament as
the cell from which the prisoner had just been
taken. There was an imitation walnut clock
at the back of the Judge's hair-cloth sofa, his
revolving chair, and his high desk. This was
the only ornament. Below was the green table
of the District Attorney, upon which rested his

74

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

papers and law-books and his high hat. To one
side sat the jury, ranch-owners and prominent
citizens, proud of having to serve on this the
first day; and on the other the prisoner in his
box. Around them gathered the citizens of
Zepata in close rows, crowded together on un-
painted benches; back of them more citizens
standing and a few awed Mexicans; and around
all the whitewashed walls. Colonel John Sto-
gart, of Dallas, the prisoner's attorney, procured
obviously at great expense, no one knew by
whom, and Barrow's wife, a thin yellow-faced
woman in a mean-fitting showy gown, sat
among the local celebrities at the District At
torney's elbow. She was the only woman in
the room.

Colonel Stogart's speech had been good. The
citizens were glad it had been so good; it had
kept up the general tone of excellence, and it
was well that the best lawyer of Dallas should
be present on this occasion, and that he should
have made what the citizens of Zepata were
proud to believe was one of the efforts of his
life. As they said, a court-house such as this
one was not open for business every day. It
was also proper that Judge Truax, who was a
real Judge, and not one by courtesy only, as
was the young District Attorney, should sit
upon the bench. He also was associated with

75

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

the early days and with the marvellous growth
of Zepata City. He had taught the young
District Attorney much of what he knew, and
his long white hair and silver-rimmed spectacles
gave dignity and the appearance of calm justice
to the bare room and to the heated words of
the rival orators.

Colonel Stogart ceased speaking, and the
District Attorney sucked in his upper lip with
a nervous, impatient sigh as he recognized that
the visiting attorney had proved murder in the
second degree, and that an execution in the
jail-yard would not follow as a fitting se
quence.

But he was determined that so far as in him
lay he would at least send his man back to the
penitentiary for the remainder of his life.

Young Harry Harvey, "The Boy Orator of
Zepata City," as he was called, was very dear
to the people of that booming town. In their
eyes he was one of the most promising young
men in the whole great unwieldy State of Texas,
and the boy orator thought they were probably
right, but he was far too clever to let them see
it. He was clever in his words and in his deeds
and in his appearance. And he dressed much
more carefully than any other man in town,
with a frock-coat and a white tie winter and
summer, and a fine high hat. That he was

THii BUY OKA I OK Oh ZfcPATA CITY

slight and short of stature was something he
could not help, and was his greatest, keenest
regret, and that Napoleon was also short and
slight did not serve to satisfy him or to make
his regret less continual. What availed the
sharply cut, smoothly shaven face and the eyes
that flashed when he was moved, or the bell-
like voice, if every unlettered ranchman or
ranger could place both hands on his shoulders
and look down at him from heights above?
But they forgot this and he forgot it before he
had reached the peroration of his closing speech.
They saw only the Harry Harvey they knew
and adored moving and rousing them with his
voice, trembling with indignation when he
wished to tremble, playing all his best tricks
in his best manner, and cutting the air with
sharp, cruel words when he was pleased to be
righteously just.

The young District Attorney turned slowly
on his heels, and swept the court-room care
lessly with a glance of the clever black eyes.
The moment was his. He saw all the men he
knew — the men who made his little world —
crowding silently forward, forgetful of the heat,
of the suffocating crush of those about them,
of the wind that rattled the doors in the corri
dors, and conscious only of him. He saw his
old preceptor watching keenly from the bench,

77

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA

with a steady glance of perfect appreciation,
such as that with which one actor in the box
compliments the other on the stage. He saw
the rival attorney — the great lawyer from the
great city — nervously smiling, with a look of
confidence that told the lack of it; and he saw
the face of the prisoner grim and set and hope
lessly defiant. The boy orator allowed his up
lifted arm to fall until the fingers pointed at the
prisoner.

"This man," he said, and as he spoke even
t&e wind in the corridors hushed for the mo
ment, "is no part or parcel of Zepata City of
to-day. He comes to us a relic of the past—
a past that has brought honor to many, wealth
to some, and which is dear to all of us who love
the completed purpose of their work; a past
that was full of hardships and glorious efforts
in the face of daily disappointments, embitter-
ments, and rebuffs. But the part this man
played in that past lives only in the rude court
records of that day, in the traditions of the
gambling-hell and the saloons, and on the head
stones of his victims. He was one of the ex
crescences of that unsettled period, an unhappy
evil — an inevitable evil, I might almost say, as
the Mexican horse-thieves and the prairie fires
and the Indian outbreaks were inevitable, as
our fathers who built this beautiful city knew

78

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

to their cost. The same chance that was given
to them to make a home for themselves in the
wilderness, to help others to make their homes,
to assist the civilization and progress not only
of this city, but of the whole Lone Star State,
was given to him, and he refused it, and blocked
the way of others, and kept back the march of
progress, until to-day, civilization, which has
waxed great and strong — not on account of
him, remember, but in spite of him — sweeps
him out of its way, and crushes him and his
fellows."

The young District Attorney allowed his arm
to drop, and turned to the jury, leaning easily
with his bent knuckles on the table.

"Gentlemen," he said, in his pleasant tones
of every-day politeness, "the 'bad man' has
become an unknown quantity in Zepata City
and in the State of Texas. It lies with you
to see that he remains so. He went out of
existence with the blanket Indian and the
buffalo. He is dead, and he must not be resur
rected. He was a picturesque evil of those early
days, but civilization has no use for him, and
it has killed him, as the railroads and the barb-
wire fence have killed the cowboy. He does
not belong here; he does not fit in; he is not
wanted. We want men who can breed good
cattle, who can build manufactories and open

79

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

banks; storekeepers who can undersell those of
other cities; and professional men who know
their business. We do not want desperadoes
and 'bad men' and faro-dealers and men who
are quick on the trigger. A foolish and morbid
publicity has cloaked men of this class with a
notoriety which cheap and pernicious literature
1 has greatly helped to disseminate. They have
been made romantic when they were brutal,
brave when they were foolhardy, heroes when
they were only bullies and blackguards. This
man, Abe Barrow, the prisoner at the bar,
belongs to that class. He enjoys and has en
joyed a reputation as a 'bad man,' a desperate
and brutal ruffian. Free him to-day, and you
set a premium on such reputations; acquit him
of this crime, and you encourage others to like
evil. Let him go, and he will walk the streets
with a swagger, and boast that you were afraid
to touch him — afraid, gentlemen — and children
and women will point after him as the man who
has sent nine others into eternity, and who yet
walks the streets a free man. And he will be
come, in the eyes of the young and the weak,
a hero and a god. This is unfortunate, but it
is true.

"Now, gentlemen, we want to keep the
streets of this city so safe that a woman can
walk them at midnight without fear of insult,

80

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

and a man can express his opinion on the corner
without being shot in the back for doing so."

The District Attorney turned from the jury
with a bow, and faced Judge Truax.

" For the last ten years, your honor, this man,
Abner Barrow, has been serving a term of im
prisonment in the State penitentiary; I ask
you to send him back there again for the re
mainder of his life. It will be the better place
for him, and we will be happier in knowing we
have done our duty in placing him there. Abe
Barrow is out of date. He has missed step
with the march of progress, and has been out
of step for ten years, and it is best for all that
he should remain out of it until he, who has sent
nine other men unprepared to meet their
God >:

"He is not on trial for the murder of nine
men," interrupted Colonel Stogart, springing
from his chair, "but for the justifiable killing

of one, and I demand, your honor, that "

—has sent nine other men to meet their
Maker," continued the District Attorney,
"meets with the awful judgment of a higher
court than this."

Colonel Stogart smiled scornfully at the plati
tude, and sat down with an expressive shrug;
but no one noticed him.

The District Attorney raised his arm and
81

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

faced the court-room. "It cannot be said of
us," he cried, "that we have sat idle in the
market-place. We have advanced and ad
vanced in the last ten years, until we have
reached the very foremost place with civilized
people. This Rip Van Winkle of the past
returns to find a city where he left a prairie
town, a bank where he spun his roulette wheel,
this magnificent court-house instead of a vigi
lance committee. And what is his part in this
new court-house, which to-day, for the first
time, throws open its doors to protect the just
and to punish the unjust?

" Is he there in the box among those honorable
men, the gentlemen of the jury? Is he in that
great crowd of intelligent, public-spirited citi
zens who make the bone and sinew of this our
fair city? Is he on the honored bench dis
pensing justice, and making the intricacies of
the law straight? No, gentlemen; he has no
part in our triumph. He is there, in the pris
oners' pen, an outlaw, a convicted murderer,
and an unconvicted assassin, the last of his race
— the bullies and bad men of the border — a
thing to be forgotten and put away forever from
the sight of man. He has outlasted his time;
he is a superfluity and an outrage on our reign
of decency and order. And I ask you, gentle
men, to put him away where he will not hear

82

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

the voice of man nor children's laughter, nor
see a woman smile, where he will not even see
the face of the warden who feeds him, nor sun
light except as it is filtered through the iron
bars of a jail. Bury him with the bitter past,
with the lawlessness that has gone — that has
gone, thank God — and which must not return.
Place him in the cell where he belongs, and
whence, had justice been done, he would never
have been taken alive."

The District Attorney sat down suddenly,
with a quick nod to the Judge and the jury,
and fumbled over his papers with nervous
fingers. He was keenly conscious, and excited
with the fervor of his own words. He heard
the reluctantly hushed applause and the whis
pers of the crowd, and noted the quick and
combined movement of the jury with a selfish
sweet pleasure, which showed itself only in the
tightening of the lips and nostrils. Those
nearest him tugged at his sleeve and shook
hands with him. He remembered this after
ward as one of the rewards of the moment.
He turned the documents before him over and
scribbled words upon a piece of paper and read
a passage in an open law-book. He did this
quite mechanically, and was conscious of noth
ing until the foreman pronounced the prisoner
at the bar guilty of murder in the second degree.

83

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

Judge Truax leaned across his desk and said,
simply, that it lay in his power to sentence the
prisoner to not less than two years' confine
ment in the State penitentiary or for the re
mainder of his life.

"Before I deliver sentence on you, Abner
Barrow," he said, with an old man's kind sever
ity, "is there anything you have to say on your
own behalf?"

The District Attorney turned his face, as did
all the others, but he did not see the prisoner.
He still saw himself holding the court-room
with a spell, and heard his own periods ringing
against the whitewashed ceiling. The others
saw a tall, broad-shouldered man leaning heav
ily forward over the bar of the prisoner's box.
His face was white with the prison tan, markedly
so in contrast with those sunburnt by the wind
and sun turned toward him, and pinched and
hollow-eyed and worn. When he spoke, his
voice had the huskiness which comes from non-
use, and cracked and broke like a child's.

"I don't know, Judge," he said, hesitatingly,
and staring stupidly at the mass of faces in the
well beneath him, "that I have anything to
say — in my own behalf. I don't know as it
would be any use. I guess what the gentleman
said about me is all there is to say. He put it
about right. I've had my fun, and I've got to

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

pay for it — that is, I thought it was fun at the
time. I am not going to cry any baby act and
beg off, or anything, if that's what you mean.
But there is something I'd like to say if I
thought you would believe me." He frowned
down at the green table as though the words he
wanted would not come, and his eyes wandered
from one face to another, until they rested upon
the bowed head of the only woman in the room.
They remained there for some short time, and
then Barrow drew in his breath more quickly,
and turned with something like a show of
confidence to the jury.

"All that man said of me is true," he said.
He gave a toss of his hands as a man throws
away the reins. "I admit all he says. I am
a back number; I am out of date; I was a
loafer and a blackguard. I never shot any man
in the back, nor I never assassinated no one;
but that's neither here nor there. I'm not in
a place where I can expect people to pick out
their words; but, as he says, I am a bad lot.
He says I have enjoyed a reputation as a des
perado. I am not bragging of that; I just ask
you to remember that he said it. Remember
it of me. I was not the sort to back down to
man or beast, and I'm not now. I am not
backing down, now; I'm taking my punish
ment. Whatever you please to make it, I'll

85

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

take it; and that," he went on, more slowly,
"makes ft harder for me to ask what I want
to ask, and make you all believe I am not ask
ing it for myself."

He stopped, and the silence in the room
seemed to give him some faint encouragement
of sympathy, though it was rather the silence
of curiosity.

Colonel Stogart gave a stern look upward,
and asked the prisoner's wife, in a whisper, if
she knew what her husband meant to say, but
she shook her head. She did not know. The
District Attorney smiled indulgently at the
prisoner and at the men about him, but they
were watching the prisoner.

"That man there," said Barrow, pointing
with one gaunt hand at the boy attorney, "told
you I had no part or parcel in this city or in
this world; that I belonged to the past; that
I had ought to be dead. Now that's not so.
I have just one thing that belongs to this city
and this world — and to me; one thing that I
couldn't take to jail with me, and that I'll have
to leave behind me when I go back to it. I
mean my wife."

The prisoner stopped, and looked so steadily
at one place below him that those in the back
of the court guessed for the first time that Mrs.
Barrow was in the room, and craned forward

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THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

to look at her, and there was a moment of con
fusion and a murmur of "Get back there!"
"Sit still!" The prisoner turned to Judge
Truax again and squared his broad shoulders,
making the more conspicuous his narrow and
sunken chest.

"You, sir," he said, quietly, with a change
from the tone of braggadocio with which he
had begun to speak, "remember her, sir, when
I married her, twelve years ago. She was
Henry Holman's daughter, he who owned the
San lago Ranch and the triangle brand. I
took her from the home she had with her father
against that gentleman's wishes, sir, to live
with me over my dance-hall at the Silver Star.
You may remember her as she was then. She
gave up everything a woman ought to have to
come to me. She thought she was going to
be happy with me; that's why she come, I
guess. Maybe she was happy for about two
weeks. After that first two weeks her life,
sir, was a hell, and I made it a hell. I was
drunk most of the time, or sleeping it off, and
ugly-tempered when I was sober. There was
shooting and carrying on all day and night
down-stairs, and she didn't dare to leave her
room. Besides that, she cared for me, and she
was afraid every minute I was going to get
killed. That's the way she lived for two years.

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

Respectable women wouldn't speak to her be
cause she was my wife; even them that were
friends of hers when she lived on the ranch
wouldn't speak to her on the street — and she
had no children. That was her life; she lived
alone over the dance-hall; and sometimes when
I was drunk — I beat her."

The man's white face reddened slowly as he
said this; and he stopped, and then continued
more quickly, with his eyes still fixed on those
of the Judge:

"At the end of two years I killed Welsh, and
they sent me to the penitentiary for ten years,
and she was free. She could have gone back to
her folks and got a divorce if she'd wanted to,
and never seen me again. It was an escape
most women'd gone down on their knees and
thanked their Maker for, and blessed the day
they'd been freed from a blackguardly drunken
brute.

"But what did this woman do — my wife,
the woman I misused and beat and dragged
down in the mud with me? She was too mighty
proud to go back to her people or to the friends
who shook her when she was in trouble; and
she sold out the place, and bought a ranch with
the money, and worked it by herself, worked it
day and night, until in ten years she had made
herself an old woman, as you see she is to-day.

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

"And for what? To get me free again; to
bring me things to eat in jail, and picture papers
and tobacco — when she was living on bacon
and potatoes, and drinking alkali water — work
ing to pay for a lawyer to fight for me — to pay
for the best lawyer ! She worked in the fields
with her own hands, planting and ploughing,
working as I never worked for myself in my
whole lazy, rotten life. That's what that
woman there did for me."

The man stopped suddenly, and turned with
a puzzled look toward where his wife sat, for
she had dropped her head on the table in front
of her, and he had heard her sobbing.

"And what I want to ask of you, sir, is to
let me have two years out of jail to show her
how I feel about it. I ask you not to send me
back for life, sir. Give me just two years —
two years of my life while I have some strength
left to work for her as she worked for me. I
only want to show her how I care for her now.
I had the chance, and I wouldn't take it; and
now, sir, I want to show her that I know and
understand — now, when it's too late. It's all
I've thought of when I was in jail, to be able
to see her sitting in her own kitchen with her
hands folded, and me working and sweating
in the fields for her — working till every bone
ached, trying to make it up to her.

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

"And I can't!" the man cried, suddenly,
losing the control he had forced upon himself,
and tossing his hands up above his head, and
with his eyes fixed hopelessly on the bowed
head below him. "I can't! It's too late. It's
too late!"

He turned and faced the crowd and the
District Attorney defiantly.

" I'm not crying for the men I killed. They're
dead. I can't bring them back. But she's not
dead, and I treated her worse than I treated
them. She never harmed me, nor got in my
way, nor angered me. And now, when I want
to do what I can for her in the little time that's
left, he tells you I'm a 'relic of the past,' that
civilization's too good for me, that you must
bury me until it's time to bury me for good.
Just when I've got something I must live for,
something I've got to do. Don't you believe
me? Don't you understand?"

He turned again toward the Judge, and beat
the rail before him impotently with his wasted
hand. "Don't send me back for life !" he cried.
"Give me a few years to work for her — two
years, one year — to show her what I feel here,
what I never felt for her before. Look at her,
gentlemen. Look how worn she is and poorly,
and look at her hands, and you men must feel
how I feel. I don't ask you for myself. I don't

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THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

want to go free on my own account. I am ask
ing it for that woman — yes, and for myself, too.
I am playing to 'get back/ gentlemen. I've lost
what I had, and I want to get back; and,"
he cried, querulously, "the game keeps going
against me. It's only a few years' freedom I
want. Send me back for thirty years, but not
for life. My God ! Judge, don't bury me alive,
as that man asked you to. I'm not civilized,
maybe; ways have changed. You are not the
man I knew; you are all strangers to me. But
I could learn. I wouldn't bother you in the old
way. I only want to live with her. I won't
harm the rest of you. Give me this last chance.
Let me prove that what I'm saying is true."

The man stopped and stood, opening and
shutting his hands upon the rail, and searching
with desperate eagerness from face to face, as
one who has staked all he has watches the wheel
spinning his fortune away. The gentlemen of
the jury sat quite motionless, looking straight
ahead at the blinding sun, which came through
the high, uncurtained windows opposite. Out
side, the wind banged the shutters against the
wall, and whistled up the street and round the
tin corners of the building, but inside the room
was very silent. The Mexicans at the door,
who could not understand, looked curiously at
the faces of the men around them, and made

01

THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

sure that they had missed something of much
importance. For a moment no one moved,
until there was a sudden stir around the Dis
trict Attorney's table, and the men stepped
aside and let the woman pass them and throw
herself against the prisoner's box. The pris
oner bent his tall gaunt figure over the rail,
and as the woman pressed his one hand against
her face, touched her shoulders with the other
awkwardly.

" There, now," he whispered, soothingly,
"don't you take on so. Now you know how I
feel, it's all right; don't take on."

Judge Truax looked at the paper on his desk
for some seconds, and raised his head, coughing
as he did so. " It lies — " Judge Truax began,
and then stopped, and began again, in a more
certain tone: "It lies at the discretion of this
Court to sentence the prisoner to a term of im
prisonment for two years, or for an indefinite
period, or for life. Owing to — On account of
certain circumstances which were — have arisen
— this sentence is suspended. This court stands
adjourned."

As he finished he sprang out of his chair im
pulsively, and with a quick authoritative nod
to the young District Attorney, came quickly
down the steps of the platform. Young Harvey
met him at the foot with wide-open eyes.

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THE BOY ORATOR OF ZEPATA CITY

The older man hesitated, and placed his
hand upon the District Attorney's shoulder.
"Harry," he said. His voice was shaken, and
his hand trembled on the arm of his protege, for
he was an old man and easily moved. "Harry,
my boy," he said, "do you think you could go
to Austin and repeat the speech that man made
to the Governor?"

The boy orator laughed, and took one of the
older man's hands in one of his and pressed it

quickly. "I'd like d d well to try/* he

said.

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THE OTHER WOMAN

YOUNG Latimer stood on one of the lower
steps of the hall stairs, leaning with one hand
on the broad railing and smiling down at her.
She had followed him from the drawing-room
and had stopped at the entrance, drawing the
curtains behind her, and making, unconsciously,
a dark background for her head and figure.
He thought he had never seen her look more
beautiful, nor that cold, fine air of thorough
breeding about her which was her greatest
beauty to him, more strongly in evidence.

"Well, sir," she said, "why don't you go?'5

He shifted his position slightly and leaned
more comfortably upon the railing, as though
he intended to discuss it with her at some
length.

"How can I go," he said, argumentatively,
"with you standing there — looking like that?"

"I really believe," the girl said, slowly, "that
he is afraid; yes, he is afraid. And you always
said," she added, turning to him, "you were so
brave."

"Oh, I am sure I never said that," exclaimed
the young man, calmly. ''I may be brave, in

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THE OTHER WOMAN

fact, I am quite brave, but I never said I was.
Some one must have told you."

"Yes, he is afraid," she said, nodding her
head to the tall clock across the hall, "he is
temporizing and trying to save time. And
afraid of a man, too, and such a good man who
would not hurt any one."

"You know a bishop is always a very diffi
cult sort of a person," he said, "and when
he happens to be your father, the combination
is just a bit awful. Isn't it now? And es
pecially when one means to ask him for his
daughter. You know it isn't like asking him
to let one smoke in his study."

"If I loved a girl," she said, shaking her
head and smiling up at him, "I wouldn't be
afraid of the whole world; that's what they
say in books, isn't it? I would be so bold and
happy."

"Oh, well, I'm bold enough," said the young
man, easily; "if I had not been, I never would
have asked you to marry me; and I'm happy
enough — that's because I did ask you. But
what if he says no," continued the youth;
"what if he says he has greater ambitions for
you, just as they say in books, too ? What will
you do? Will you run away with me? I can
borrow a coach just as they used to do, and we
can drive off through the Park and be married,

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THE OTHER WOMAN

and come back and ask his blessing on our knees
— unless he should overtake us on the elevated."

"That," said the girl, decidedly, "is flippant,
and I'm going to leave you. I never thought
to marry a man who would be frightened at
the very first. I am greatly disappointed."

She stepped back into the drawing-room and
pulled the curtains to behind her, and then
opened them again and whispered, "Please
don't be long," and disappeared. He waited,
smiling, to see if she would make another ap
pearance, but she did not, and he heard her
touch the keys of the piano at the other end of
the drawing-room. And so, still smiling and
with her last words sounding in his ears, he
walked slowly up the stairs and knocked at the
door of the bishop's study. The bishop's room
was not ecclesiastic in its character. It looked
much like the room of any man of any calling
who cared for his books and to have pictures
about him, and copies of the beautiful things
he had seen on his travels. There were pictures
of the Virgin and the Child, but they were those
that are seen in almost any house, and there
were etchings and plaster casts, and there were
hundreds of books, and dark red curtains, and
an open fire that lit up the pots of brass with
ferns in them, and the blue and white plaques
on the top of the bookcase. The bishop sat

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THE OTHER WOMAN

before his writing-table, with one hand shading
his eyes from the light of a red-covered lamp,
and looked up and smiled pleasantly and nodded
as the young man entered. He had a very
strong face, with white hair hanging at the side,
but was still a young man for one in such a high
office. He was a man interested in many
things, who could talk to men of any profession
or to the mere man of pleasure, and could in
terest them in what he said, and force their
respect and liking. And he was very good,
and had, they said, seen much trouble.

"I am afraid I interrupted you," said the
young man, tentatively.

"No, I have interrupted myself," replied the
bishop. "I don't seem to make this clear to
myself," he said, touching the paper in front of
him, "and so I very much doubt if I am going
to make it clear to any one else. However,"
he added, smiling, as he pushed the manuscript
to one side, "we are not going to talk about
that now. What have you to tell me that is
new?"

The younger man glanced up quickly at this,
but the bishop's face showed that his words
had had no ulterior meaning, and that he sus
pected nothing more serious to come than the
gossip of the clubs or a report of the local po
litical fight in which he was keenly interested,

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THE OTHER WOMAN

or on their mission on the East Side. But it
seemed an opportunity to Latimer.

"I have something new to tell you," he said,
gravely, and with his eyes turned toward the
open fire, "and I don't know how to do it ex
actly. I mean I don't just know how it is
generally done or how to tell it best." He
hesitated and leaned forward, with his hands
locked in front of him, and his elbows resting
on his knees. He was not in the least fright
ened. The bishop had listened to many strange
stories, to many confessions, in this same study,
and had learned to take them as a matter of
course; but to-night something in the manner
of the young man before him made him stir
uneasily, and he waited for him to disclose the
object of his visit with some impatience.

"I will suppose, sir," said young Latimer,
finally, "that you know me rather well — I mean
you know who my people are, and what I am
doing here in New York, and who my friends
are, and what my work amounts to. You have
let me see a great deal of you, and I have appre
ciated your doing so very much; to so young a
man as myself it has been a great compliment,
and it has been of great benefit to me. I know
that better than any one else. I say this be
cause unless you had shown me this confidence
it would have been almost impossible for me

THE OTHER WOMAN

to say to you what I am going to say now. But
you have allowed me to come here frequently,
and to see you and talk with you here in your
study, and to see even more of your daughter.
Of course, sir, you did not suppose that I came
here only to see you. I came here because I
found that, if I did not see Miss Ellen for a day,
that that day was wasted, and that I spent it
uneasily and discontentedly, and the necessity
of seeing her even more frequently has grown
so great that I cannot come here as often as I
seem to want to come unless I am engaged to
her, unless I come as her husband that is to be."
The young man had been speaking very slowly
and picking his words, but now he raised his
head and ran on quickly.

" I have spoken to her and told her how I love
her, and she has told me that she loves me, and
that if you will not oppose us, will marry me.
That is the news I have to tell you, sir. I
don't know but that I might have told it differ
ently, but that is it. I need not urge on you
my position and all that, because I do not think
that weighs with you; but I do tell you that I
love Ellen so dearly that, though I am not
worthy of her, of course, I have no other pleasure
than to give her pleasure and to try to make her
happy. I have the power to do it; but what is
much more, I have the wish to do it; it is all I

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THE OTHER WOMAN

think of now, and all that I can ever think
of. What she thinks of me you must ask her;
but what she is to me neither she can tell you
nor do I believe that I myself could make
you understand." The young man's face was
flushed and eager, and as he finished speaking
he raised his head and watched the bishop's
countenance anxiously. But the older man's
face was hidden by his hand as he leaned with
his elbow on his writing-table. His other hand
was playing with a pen, and when he began to
speak, which he did after a long pause, he still
turned it between his fingers and looked down
at it.

"I suppose," he said, as softly as though he
were speaking to himself, "that I should have
known this; I suppose that I should have been
better prepared to hear it. But it is one of
those things which men put off — I mean those
men who have children, put off — as they do
making their wills, as something that is in the
future and that may be shirked until it comes.
We seem to think that our daughters will live
with us always, just as we expect to live on
ourselves until death comes one day and startles
us and finds us unprepared." He took down
his hand and smiled gravely at the younger man
with an evident effort, and said, "I did not
mean to speak so gloomily, but you see my

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THE OTHER WOMAN

point of view must be different from yours.
And she says she loves you, does she?" he
added, gently.

Young Latimer bowed his head and murmured
something inarticulately in reply, and then held
his head erect again and waited, still watching
the bishop's face.

"I think she might have told me," said the
older man; "but then I suppose this is the
better way. I am young enough to understand
that the old order changes, that the customs of
my father's time differ from those of to-day.
And there is no alternative, I suppose," he said,
shaking his head. "I am stopped and told to
deliver, and have no choice. I will get used to
it in time," he went on, "but it seems very hard
now. Fathers are selfish, I imagine, but she
is all I have."

Young Latimer looked gravely into the fire
and wondered how long it would last. He
could just hear the piano from below, and he
was anxious to return to her. And at the same
time he was drawn toward the older man before
him, and felt rather guilty, as though he really
were robbing him. But at the bishop's next
words he gave up any thought of a speedy
release, and settled himself in his chair.

"We are still to have a long talk," said the
bishop. " There are many things I must know,

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THE OTHER WOMAN

and of which I am sure you will inform me
freely. I believe there are some who consider
me hard, and even narrow on different points,
but I do not think you will find me so, at least
let us hope not. I must confess that for a
moment I almost hoped that you might not be
able to answer the questions I must ask you,
but it was only for a moment. I am only too
.sure you will not be found wanting, and that
the conclusion of our talk will satisfy us both.
Yes, I am confident of that."

His manner changed, nevertheless, and Lati-
mer saw that he was now facing a judge and not
a plaintiff who had been robbed, and that he
was in turn the defendant. And still he was
in no way frightened.

"I like you," the bishop said, "I like you
very much. As you say yourself, I have seen a
great deal of you, because I have enjoyed your
society, and your views and talk were good and
young and fresh, and did me good. You have
served to keep me in touch with the outside
world, a world of which I used to know at one
time a great deal. I know your people and I
know you, I think, and many people have spoken
to me of you. I see why now. They, no
doubt, understood what was coming better than
myself, and were meaning to reassure me con
cerning you. And they said nothing but what

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THE OTHER WOMAN

was good of you. But there are certain things
of which no one can know but yourself, and
concerning which no other person, save myself,
has a right to question you. You have prom
ised very fairly for my daughter's future; you
have suggested more than you have said, but
I understood. You can give her many plea
sures which I have not been able to afford; she
can get from you the means of seeing more
of this world in which she lives, of meeting
more people, and of indulging in her charities,
or in her extravagances, for that matter, as
she wishes. I have no fear of her bodily com
fort; her life, as far as that is concerned, will
be easier and broader, and with more power for
good. Her future, as I say, as you say also,
is assured; but I want to ask you this," the
bishop leaned forward and watched the young
man anxiously, "you can protect her in the
future, but can you assure me that you can
protect her from the past?"

Young Latimer raised his eyes calmly and
said, "I don't think I quite understand."

"I have perfect confidence, I say," returned
the bishop, "in you as far as your treatment of
Ellen is concerned in the future. You love
her and you would do everything to make the
life of the woman you love a happy one; but
this is it, Can you assure me that there is

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THE OTHER WOMAN

nothing in the past that may reach forward
later and touch my daughter through you —
no ugly story, no oats that have been sowed,
and no boomerang that you have thrown wan
tonly and that has not returned — but which
may return?"

"I think I understand you now, sir," said
the young man, quietly. "I have lived," he
began, "as other men of my sort have lived.
You know what that is, for you must have seen
it about you at college, and after that before
you entered the Church. I judge so from
your friends, who were your friends then, I
understand. You know how they lived. I
never went in for dissipation, if you mean
that, because it never attracted me. I am
afraid I kept out of it not so much out of respect
for others as for respect for myself. I found
my self-respect was a very good thing to keep,
and I rather preferred keeping it and losing
several pleasures that other men managed to
enjoy, apparently with free consciences. I con
fess I used to rather envy them. It is no
particular virtue on my part; the thing struck
me as rather more vulgar than wicked, and so
I have had no wild oats to speak of; and no
woman, if that is what you mean, can write
an anonymous letter, and no man can tell you
a story about me that he could not tell in my
presence."

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THE OTHER WOMAN

There was something in the way the young
man spoke which would have amply satisfied
the outsider, had he been present; but the
bishop's eyes were still unrelaxed and anxious.
He made an impatient motion with his hand.

"I know you too well, I hope," he said, "to
think of doubting your attitude in that par
ticular. I know you are a gentleman, that is
enough for that; but there is something beyond
these more common evils. You see, I am
terribly in earnest over this — you may think
unjustly so, considering how well I know you,
but this child is my only child. If her mother
had lived, my responsibility would have been
less great; but, as it is, God has left her here
alone to me in my hands. I do not think He
intended my duty should end when I had fed
and clothed her, and taught her to read and
write. I do not think He meant that I should
only act as her guardian until the first man
she fancied fancied her. I must look to her
happiness not only now when she is with me,
but I must assure myself of it when she leaves
my roof. These common sins of youth I acquit
you of. Such things are beneath you, I be
lieve, and I did not even consider them. But
there are other toils in which men become
involved, other evils or misfortunes which
exist, and which threaten all men who are
young and free and attractive in many ways to

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THE OTHER WOMAN

women, as well as men. You have lived the
life of the young man of this day. You have
reached a place in your profession when you
can afford to rest and marry and assume the
responsibilities of marriage. You look forward
to a life of content and peace and honorable
ambition — a life, with your wife at your side,
which is to last forty or fifty years. You con^
sider where you will be twenty years from now,
at what point of your career you may become
a judge or give up practise; your perspective
is unlimited; you even think of the college to
which you may send your son. It is a long,
quiet future that you are looking forward to,
and you choose my daughter as the companion
for that future, as the one woman with whom
you could live content for that length of time.
And it is in that spirit that you come to me to
night and that you ask me for my daughter.
Now I am going to ask you one question, and
as you answer that I will tell you whether or
not you can have Ellen for your wife. You
look forward, as I say, to many years of life,
and you have chosen her as best suited to live
that period with you; but I ask you this, and
I demand that you answer me truthfully,
and that you remember that you are speaking
to her father. Imagine that I had the power
to tell you, or rather that some superhuman

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THE OTHER WOMAN

agent could convince you, that you had but a
month to live, and that for what you did in that
month you would not be held responsible either
by any moral law or any law made by man,
and that your life hereafter would not be in
fluenced by your conduct in that month, would
you spend it, I ask you — and on your answer
depends mine — would you spend those thirty
days, with death at the end, with my daughter,
or with some other woman of whom I know
nothing?"

Latimer sat for some time silent, until indeed,
his silence assumed such a significance that he
raised his head impatiently and said with a mo
tion of the hand, " I mean to answer you in a
minute; I want to be sure that I understand."

The bishop bowed his head in assent, and for
a still longer period the men sat motionless.
The clock in the corner seemed to tick more
loudly, and the dead coals dropping in the
grate had a sharp, aggressive sound. The
notes of the piano that had risen from the room
below had ceased.

" If I understand you," said Latimer, finally,
and his voice and his face as he raised it were
hard and aggressive, "you are stating a purely
hypothetical case. You wish to try me by con
ditions which do not exist, which cannot exist.
What justice is there, what right is there, in

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THE OTHER WOMAN

asking me to say how I would act under cir
cumstances which are impossible, which lie
beyond the limit of human experience? You
cannot judge a man by what he would do if he
were suddenly robbed of all his mental and
moral training and of the habit of years. I am
not admitting, understand me, that if the
conditions which you suggest did exist that I
would do one whit differently from what I will
do if they remain as they are. I am merely
denying your right to put such a question to
me at all. You might just as well judge the
shipwrecked sailors on a raft who eat each
other's flesh as you would judge a sane, healthy
man who did such a thing in his own home.
Are you going to condemn men who are ice-
locked at the North Pole, or buried in the heart
of Africa, and who have given up all thought
of return and are half mad and wholly without
hope, as you would judge ourselves? Are they
to be weighed and balanced as you and I are,
sitting here within the sound of the cabs out
side and with a bake-shop around the corner?
What you propose could not exist, could never
happen. I could never be placed where I
should have to make such a choice, and you
have no right to ask me what I would do or how
I would act under conditions that are super
human — you used the word yourself — where all

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THE OTHER WOMAN

that I have held to be good and just and true
would be obliterated. I would be unworthy of
myself, I would be unworthy of your daughter,
if I considered such a state of things for a mo
ment, or if I placed my hopes of marrying her
on the outcome of such a test, and so, sir," said
the young man, throwing back his head, "I
must refuse to answer you."

The bishop lowered his hand from before his
eyes and sank back wearily into his chair.
"You have answered me," he said.

"You have no right to say that," cried the
young man, springing to his feet. 'You have
no right to suppose anything or to draw any
conclusions. I have not answered you." He
stood with his head and shoulders thrown back,
and with his hands resting on his hips and with
the fingers working nervously at his waist.

"What you have said," replied the bishop,
in a voice that had changed strangely, and
which was inexpressibly sad and gentle, "is
merely a curtain of words to cover up your
true feeling. It would have been so easy to
have said, 'For thirty days or for life Ellen is
the only woman who has the power to make
me happy.' You see that would have answered
me and satisfied me. But you did not say
that," he added, quickly, as the young man
made a movement as if to speak.

109

THE OTHER WOMAN

"Well, and suppose this other woman did
exist, what then?" demanded Latimer. "The
conditions you suggest are impossible; you
must, you will surely, sir, admit that."

"I do not know," replied the bishop, sadly;
" I do not know. It may happen that whatever
obstacle there has been which has kept you
from her may be removed. It may be that
she has married, it may be that she has fallen
so low that you cannot marry her. But if you
have loved her once, you may love her again;
whatever it was that separated you in the past,
that separates you now, that makes you prefer
my daughter to her, may come to an end when
you are married, when it will be too late, and
when only trouble can come of it, and Ellen
would bear that trouble. Can I risk that?"

"But I tell you it is impossible," cried the
young man. "The woman is beyond the love
of any man, at least such a man as I am, or try
to be."

"Do you mean," asked the bishop, gently,
and with an eager look of hope, "that she is
dead?"

Latimer faced the father for some seconds in
silence. Then he raised his head slowly.
"No," he said, "I do not mean she is dead.
No, she is not dead."

Again the bishop moved back wearily into
no

THE OTHER WOMAN

his chair. "You mean then," he said, "per
haps, that she is a married woman?" Latimer
pressed his lips together at first as though he
would not answer, and then raised his eyes
coldly. "Perhaps," he said.

The older man had held up his hand as if to
signify that what he was about to say should be
listened to without interruption, when a sharp
turning of the lock of the door caused both
father and the suitor to start. Then they
turned and looked at each other with anxious
inquiry and with much concern, for they recog
nized for the first time that their voices had
been loud. The older man stepped quickly
across the floor, but before he reached the
middle of the room the door opened from the
outside, and his daughter stood in the door-way,
with her head held down and her eyes looking
at the floor.

"Ellen!" exclaimed the father, in a voice of
pain and the deepest pity.

The girl moved toward the place from where
his voice came, without raising her eyes, and
when she reached him put her arms about him
and hid her face on his shoulder. She moved
as though she were tired, as though she were
exhausted by some heavy work.

"My child," said the bishop, gently, "were
you listening?" There was no reproach in his

in

THE OTHER WOMAN

voice; it was simply full of pity and con
cern.

"I thought," whispered the girl, brokenly,
"that he would be frightened; I wanted to
hear what he would say. I thought I could
laugh at him for it afterward. I did it for a
joke. I thought— ' She stopped with a little
gasping sob that she tried to hide, and for a
moment held herself erect and then sank back
again into her father's arms with her head upon
his breast.

Latimer started forward, holding out his
arms to her. "Ellen," he said, "surely, Ellen,
you are not against me. You see how pre
posterous it is, how unjust it is to me. You
cannot mean "

The girl raised her head and shrugged her
shoulders slightly as though she were cold.
"Father," she said, wearily, "ask him to go
away. Why does he stay? Ask him to go
away."

Latimer stopped and took a step back as
though some one had struck him, and then
stood silent with his face flushed and his eyes
flashing. It was not in answer to anything
that they said that he spoke, but to their at
titude and what it suggested. :<You stand
there," he began, "you two stand there as
though I were something unclean, as though

112

THE OTHER WOMAN

I had committed some crime. You look at;
me as though I were on trial for murder or
worse. Both of you together against me.
What have I done? What difference is there?
You loved me a half-hour ago, Ellen; you said
you did. I know you loved me; and you,
sir," he added, more quietly, "treated me like
a friend. Has anything come since then to
change me or you? Be fair to me, be sensible.
What is the use of this? It is a silly, needless,
horrible mistake. You know I love you, Ellen;
love you better than all the world. I don't
have to tell you that; you know it, you can
see and feel it. It does not need to be said;
words can't make it any truer. You have con
fused yourselves and stultified yourselves with
this trick, this test by hypothetical conditions,
by considering what is not real or possible. It
is simple enough; it is plain enough. You
know I love you, Ellen, and you only, and that
is all there is to it, and all that there is of any
consequence in the world to me. The matter
stops there; that is all there is for you to con
sider. Answer me, Ellen, speak to me. Tell
me that you believe me."

He stopped and moved a step toward her,
but as he did so, the girl, still without looking
up, drew herself nearer to her father and shrank
more closely into his arms; but the father's face

THE OTHER WOMAN

was troubled and doubtful, and he regarded the
younger man with a look of the most anxious
scrutiny. Latimer did not regard this. Their
hands were raised against him as far as he could
understand, and he broke forth again proudly,
and with a defiant indignation:

"What right have you to judge me?" he
began; "what do you know of what I have
suffered, and endured, and overcome? How
can you know what I have had to give up and
put away from me? It's easy enough for you
to draw your skirts around you, but what can
a woman bred as you have been bred know of
what I've had to fight against and keep under
and cut away? It was an easy, beautiful idyl
to you; your love came to you only when it
should have come, and for a man who was
good and worthy, and distinctly eligible — I
don't mean that; forgive me, Ellen, but you
drive me beside myself. But he is good and
he believes himself worthy, and I say that my
self before you both. But I am only worthy
and only good because of that other love that
I put away when it became a crime, when it
became impossible. Do you know what it cost
me? Do you know what it meant to me, and
what I went through, and how I suffered? Do
you know who this other woman is whom you
are insulting with your doubts and guesses in

114

THE OTHER WOMAN

the dark? Can't you spare her? Am I not
enough? Perhaps it was easy for her, too;
perhaps her silence cost her nothing; perhaps
she did not suffer and has nothing but happiness
and content to look forward to for the rest of
her life; and I tell you that it is because we did
put it away, and kill it, and not give way to it
that I am whatever I am to-day; whatever
good there is in me is due to that temptation
and to the fact that I beat it and overcame it
and kept myself honest and clean. And when
I met you and learned to know you I believed
in my heart that God had sent you to me that
I might know what it was to love a woman
whom I could marry and who could be my
wife; that you were the reward for my having
overcome temptation and the sign that I had
done well. And now you throw me over and
put me aside as though I were something low
and unworthy, because of this temptation, be
cause of this very thing that has made me know
myself and my own strength and that has kept
me up for you."

As the young man had been speaking, the
bishop's eyes had never left his face, and as
he finished, the face of the priest grew clearer
and decided, and calmly exultant. And as
Latimer ceased he bent his head above his
daughter's, and said in a voice that seemed to

115

THE OTHER WOMAN

speak with more than human inspiration. " My
child," he said, "if God had given me a son I
should have been proud if he could have spoken
as this young man has done."

But the woman only said, "Let him go to
her."

"Ellen, oh, Ellen!" cried the father.

He drew back from the girl in his arms and
looked anxiously and feelingly at her lover.
"How could you, Ellen," he said, "how could
you?" He was watching the young man's
face with eyes full of sympathy and concern.
"How little you know him," he said, "how
little you understand. He will not do that,"
he added quickly, but looking questioningly at
Latimer and speaking in a tone almost of
command. "He will not undo all that he has
done; I know him better than that. But
Latimer made no answer, and for a moment
the two men stood watching each other and
questioning each other with their eyes. Then
Latimer turned, and without again so much
as glancing at the girl walked steadily to the
door and left the room. He passed on slowly
down the stairs and out into the night, and
paused upon the top of the steps leading to the
street. Below him lay the avenue with its
double line of lights stretching off in two long
perspectives. The lamps of hundreds of cabs

116

THE OTHER WOMAN

and carriages flashed as they advanced toward
him and shone for a moment at the turnings
of the cross-streets, and from either side came
the ceaseless rush and murmur, and over all
hung the strange mystery that covers a great
city at night. Latimer's rooms lay to the
south, but he stood looking toward a spot to
the north with a reckless, harassed look in his
face that had not been there for many months.
He stood so for a minute, and then gave a short
shrug of disgust at his momentary doubt and
ran quickly down the steps. "No," he said,
"if it were for a month, yes; but it is to be for
many years, many more long years." And
turning his back resolutely to the north he went
slowly home.

117

ON THE FEVER SHIP

THERE were four rails around the ship's
sides, the three lower ones of iron and the one
on top of wood, and as he looked between them
from the canvas cot he recognized them as the
prison-bars which held him in. Outside his
prison lay a stretch of blinding blue water
which ended in a line of breakers and a yellow
coast with ragged palms. Beyond that again
rose a range of mountain-peaks, and, stuck
upon the loftiest peak of all, a tiny block-house.
It rested on the brow of the mountain against
the naked sky as impudently as a cracker-box
set upon the dome of a great cathedral.

As the transport rode on her anchor-chains,
the iron bars around her sides rose and sank
and divided the landscape with parallel lines.
From his cot the officer followed this phenome
non with severe, painstaking interest. Some
times the wooden rail swept up to the very
block-house itself, and for a second of time
blotted it from sight. And again it sank to
the level of the line of breakers, and wiped them
out of the picture as though they were a line of
chalk.

118

ON THE FEVER SHIP

The soldier on the cot promised himself that
the next swell of the sea would send the lowest
rail climbing to the very top of the palm-trees
or, even higher, to the base of the mountains;
and when it failed to reach even the palm-trees
he felt a distinct sense of ill use, of having been
wronged by some one. There was no other!
reason for submitting to this existence save
these tricks upon the wearisome, glaring land
scape; and now, whoever it was who was work
ing them did not seem to be making this effort
to entertain him with any heartiness.

It was most cruel. Indeed, he decided hotly,
it was not to be endured; he would bear it no
longer, he would make his escape. But he
knew that this move, which could be conceived
in a moment's desperation, could only be
carried to success with great strategy, secrecy,
and careful cunning. So he fell back upon his
pillow and closed his eyes, as though he were
asleep, and then opening them again, turned
cautiously, and spied upon his keeper. As
usual, his keeper sat at the foot of the cot
turning the pages of a huge paper filled with
pictures of the war printed in daubs of tawdry
colors. His keeper was a hard-faced boy with
out human pity or consideration, a very devil
of obstinacy and fiendish cruelty. To make it
worse, the fiend was a person without a collar,

119

ON THE FEVER SHIP

in a suit of soiled khaki, with a curious red cross
bound by a safety-pin to his left arm. He was
intent upon the paper in his hands; he was
holding it between his eyes and his prisoner.
His vigilance had relaxed, and the moment
seemed propitious. With a sudden plunge of
arms and legs, the prisoner swept the bed-sheet
from him, and sprang at the wooden rail and
grasped the iron stanchion beside it. He had
his knee pressed against the top bar and his
bare toes on the iron rail beneath it. Below
him the blue water waited for him. It was
cool and dark and gentle and deep. It would
certainly put out the fire in his bones, he
thought; it might even shut out the glare of
the sun which scorched his eyeballs.

But as he balanced for the leap, a swift weak
ness and nausea swept over him, a weight
seized upon his body and limbs. He could
not lift the lower foot from the iron rail, and he
swayed dizzily and trembled. He trembled.
He who had raced his men and beaten them up
the hot hill to the trenches of San Juan. But
now he was a baby in the hands of a giant, who
caught him by the wrist and with an iron arm
clasped him around his waist and pulled him
down, and shouted, brutally, "Help, some of
youse, quick ! he's at it again. I can't hold
him."

120

ON THE FEVER SHIP

More giants grasped him by the arms and by
the legs. One of them took the hand that clung
to the stanchion in both of his, and pulled back
the fingers one by one, saying, "Easy now,
Lieutenant — easy."

The ragged palms and the sea and block
house were swallowed up in a black fog, and his
body touched the canvas cot again with a sense
of home-coming and relief and rest. He won
dered how he could have cared to escape from
it. He found it so good to be back again that
for a long time he wept quite happily, until the
fiery pillow was moist and cool.

The world outside of the iron bars was like
a scene in a theatre set for some great event,
but the actors were never ready. He remem
bered confusedly a play he had once witnessed
before that same scene. Indeed, he believed
he had played some small part in it; but he
remembered it dimly, and all trace of the men
who had appeared with him in it was gone.
He had reasoned it out that they were up there
behind the range of mountains, because great
heavy wagons and ambulances and cannon were
emptied from the ships at the wharf above and
were drawn away in long lines behind the
ragged palms, moving always toward the passes
between the peaks. At times he was disturbed
by the thought that he should be up and after

121

ON THE FEVER SHIP

them, that some tradition of duty made his
presence with them imperative. There was
much to be done back of the mountains. Some
event of momentous import was being carried
forward there, in which he held a part; but
the doubt soon passed from him, and he was
content to lie and watch the iron bars rising and
falling between the block-house and the white
surf.

If they had been only humanely kind, his
lot would have been bearable, but they starved
him and held him down when he wished to rise;
and they would not put out the fire in the
pillow, which they might easily have done by
the simple expedient of throwing it over the
ship's side into the sea. He himself had done
this twice, but the keeper had immediately
brought a fresh pillow already heated for the
torture and forced it under his head.

His pleasures were very simple, and so few
that he could not understand why they robbed
him of them so jealously. One was to watch
a green cluster of bananas that hung above
him from the awning, twirling on a string. He
could count as many of them as five before the
bunch turned and swung lazily back again,
when he could count as high as twelve; some
times when the ship rolled heavily he could
count to twenty. It was a most fascinating

122

ON THE FEVER SHIP

game, and contented him for many hours.
But when they found this out they sent for the
cook to come and cut them down, and the cook
carried them away to his galley.

Then, one day, a man came out from the
shore, swimming through the blue water with
great splashes. He was a most charming man,
who spluttered and dove and twisted and lay
on his back and kicked his legs in an excess of
content and delight. It was a real pleasure to
watch him; not for days had anything so
amusing appeared on the other side of the
prison-bars. But as soon as the keeper saw that
the man in the water was amusing his prisoner,
he leaned over the ship's side and shouted,
"Sa-ay, you, don't you know there's skarks in
there?"

And the swimming man said, "The h — II
there is!" and raced back to the shore like a
porpoise with great lashing of the water, and
ran up the beach half-way to the palms before
he was satisfied to stop. Then the prisoner
wept again. It /was so disappointing. Life
was robbed of everything now. He remem
bered that in a previous existence soldiers who
cried were laughed at and mocked. But that
was so far away and it was such an absurd
superstition that he had no patience with it.
For what could be more comforting to a man

123

ON THE FEVER SHIP

when he is treated cruelly than to cry. It was
so obvious an exercise, and when one is so
feeble that one cannot vault a four-railed barrier
it is something to feel that at least one is strong
enough to cry.

He escaped occasionally, traversing space
with marvellous rapidity and to great distances,
but never to any successful purpose; and his
flight inevitably ended in ignominious recapture
and a sudden awakening in bed. At these
moments the familiar and hated palms, the
peaks, and the block-house were more hideous
in their reality than the most terrifying of his
nightmares.

These excursions afield were always predatory;
he went forth always to seek food. With all
the beautiful world from which to elect and
choose, he sought out only those places where
eating was studied and elevated to an art.
These visits were much more vivid in their
detail than any he had ever before made to
these same resorts. They invariably began in
a carriage, which carried him swiftly over
smooth asphalt. One route brought him across
a great and beautiful square, radiating with
rows and rows of flickering lights; two foun
tains splashed in the centre of the square, and
six women of stone guarded its approaches.
One of the women was hung with wreaths of

124

ON THE FEVER SHIP

mourning. Ahead of him the late twilight
darkened behind a great arch, which seemed to
rise on the horizon of the world, a great window
into the heavens beyond. At either side strings
of white and colored globes hung among the
trees, and the sound of music came joyfully
.from theatres in the open air. He knew the
restaurant under the trees to which he was now
hastening, and the fountain beside it, and the
very sparrows balancing on the fountain's edge;
he knew every waiter at each of the tables, he
felt again the gravel crunching under his feet,
he saw the maitre cT hotel coming forward smiling
to receive his command, and the waiter in the
green apron bowing at his elbow, deferential
and important, presenting the list of wines.
But his adventure never passed that point, for
he was captured again and once more bound to
his cot with a close burning sheet.

Or else, he drove more sedately through the
London streets in the late evening twilight,
leaning expectantly across the doors of the
hansom and pulling carefully at his white
gloves. Other hansoms flashed past him, the
occupant of each with his mind fixed on one
idea — dinner. He was one of a million of
people who were about to dine, or who had
dined, or who were deep in dining. He was so
famished, so weak for food of any quality, that

125

ON THE FEVER SHIP

X

the galloping horse in the hansom seemed to
crawl. The lights of the Embankment passed
like the lamps of a railroad station as seen from
the window of an express; and while his mind
was still torn between the choice of a thin or
thick soup or an immediate attack upon cold
beef, he was at the door, and the chasseur
touched his cap, and the little chasseur put the
wicker guard over the hansom's wheel. As he
jumped out he said, "Give him half-a-crown,"
and the driver called after him, "Thank you, sir."
It was a beautiful world, this world outside
of the iron bars. Every one in it contributed
to his pleasure and to his comfort. In this
world he was not starved nor man-handled.
He thought of this joyfully as he leaped up the
stairs, where young men with grave faces and
with their hands held negligently behind their
backs bowed to him in polite surprise at his
speed. But they had not been starved on con
densed milk. He threw his coat and hat at
one of them, and came down the hall fearfully
and quite weak with dread lest it should not be
real. His voice was shaking when he asked
Ellis if he had reserved a table. The place
was all so real, it must be true this time. The
way Ellis turned and ran his finger down the
list showed it was real, because Ellis always did
that, even when he knew there would not be

126

ON THE FEVER SHIP

an empty table for an hour. The room was
crowded with beautiful women; under the light
of the red shades they looked kind and approach
able, and there was food on every table, and
iced drinks in silver buckets. It was with the
joy of great relief that he heard Ellis say to his
underling, "Numero cinq, sur la terrace, un
couvert." It was real at last. Outside, the
Thames lay a great gray shadow. The lights of
the Embankment flashed and twinkled across
it, the tower of the House of Commons rose
against the sky, and here, inside, the waiter was
hurrying toward him carrying a smoking plate
of rich soup with a pungent, intoxicating odor.

And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun,
the immovable peaks, and the white surf stood
again before him. The iron rails swept up and
sank again, the fever sucked at his bones, and
the pillow scorched his cheek. *

One morning for a brief moment he came
back to real life again and lay quite still, seeing
everything about him with clear eyes and for
the first time, as though he had but just that
instant been lifted over the ship's side. His
keeper, glancing up, found the prisoner's eyes
considering him curiously, and recognized the
change. The instinct of discipline brought him
to his feet with his fingers at his sides.

"Is the Lieutenant feeling better?"
127

ON THE FEVER SHIP

The Lieutenant surveyed him gravely.

"You are one of our hospital stewards."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"Why ar'n't you with the regiment?"

" I was wounded, too, sir. I got it same time
you did, Lieutenant."

"Am I wounded? Of course, I remember.
Is this a hospital ship?"

The steward shrugged his shoulders. "She's
one of the transports. They have turned her
over to the fever cases."

The Lieutenant opened his lips to ask another
question; but his own body answered that one,
and for a moment he lay silent.

"Do they know up North that I — that I'm
all right?"

"Oh, yes, the papers had it in — there was
pictures of the Lieutenant in some of them."

"Then I've been ill some time?"

"Oh, about eight days."

The soldier moved uneasily, and the nurse
in him became uppermost.

"I guess the Lieutenant hadn't better talk
any more," he said. It was his voice now
which held authority.

The Lieutenant looked out at the palms and
the silent gloomy mountains and the empty
coast-line, where the same wave was rising and
falling with weary persistence.

128

ON THE FEVER SHIP

" Eight days," he said. His eyes shut quickly,
as though with a sudden touch of pain. He
turned his head and sought for the figure at
the foot of the cot. Already the figure had
grown faint and was receding and swaying.

"Has any one written or cabled?" the Lieu
tenant spoke, hurriedly. He was fearful lest
the figure should disappear altogether before he
could obtain his answer. "Has any one come?"

"Why, they couldn't get here, Lieutenant, not
yet."

The voice came very faintly. !<You go to
sleep now, and I'll run and fetch some letters
and telegrams. When you wake up, maybe
I'll have a lot for you."

But the Lieutenant caught the nurse by the
wrist, and crushed his hand in his own thin
fingers. They were hot, and left the steward's
skin wet with perspiration. The Lieutenant
laughed gayly.

"You see, Doctor," he said, briskly, "that
you can't kill me. I can't die. I've got to
live, you understand. Because, sir, she said
she would come. She said if I was wounded, or
if I was ill, she would come to me. She didn't
care what people thought. She would come
anyway and nurse me — well, she will come.

"So, Doctor — old man — " He plucked at
the steward's sleeve, and stroked his hand

129

ON THE FEVER SHIP

eagerly, "old man — " he began again, beseech
ingly, "you'll not let me die until she comes,
will you? What? No, I know I won't die.
Nothing made by man can kill me. No, not
until she comes. Then, after that — eight days,
she'll be here soon, any moment? What?
You think so, too? Don't you? Surely, yes,
any moment. Yes, I'll go to sleep now, and
when you see her rowing out from shore you
wake me. You'll know her; you can't make a
mistake. She is like — no, there is no one like
her — but you can't make a mistake."

That day strange figures began to mount the
sides of the ship, and to occupy its every turn
and angle of space. Some of them fell on their
knees and slapped the bare decks with their
hands, and laughed and cried out, "Thank God,
I'll see God's country again!" Some of them
were regulars, bound in bandages; some were
volunteers, dirty and hollow-eyed, with long
beards on boy's faces. Some came on crutches;
others with their arms around the shoulders of
their comrades, staring ahead of them with a
fixed smile, their lips drawn back and their teeth
protruding. At every second step they stum
bled, and the face of each was swept by swift
ripples of pain.

They lay on cots so close together that the
nurses could not walk between them. They

130

ON THE FEVER SHIP

lay on the wet decks, in the scuppers, and along
the transoms and hatches. They were like
shipwrecked mariners clinging to a raft, and
they asked nothing more than that the ship's
bow be turned toward home. Once satisfied as
to that, they relaxed into a state of self-pity
and miserable oblivion to their environment,
from which hunger nor nausea nor aching bones
could shake them.

The hospital steward touched the Lieutenant
lightly on the shoulder.

"We are going North, sir," he said. "The
transport's ordered North to New York, with
these volunteers and the sick and wounded.
Do you hear me, sir?"

The Lieutenant opened his eyes. "Has she
come?" he asked.

"Gee!" exclaimed the hospital steward. He
glanced impatiently at the blue mountains and
the yellow coast, from which the transport was
drawing rapidly away.

"Well, I can't see her coming just now," he
said. "But she will," he added.

'You let me know at once when she comes."

"Why, cert'nly, of course," said the steward.

Three trained nurses came over the side just
before the transport started North. One was
a large, motherly looking woman, with a Ger
man accent. She had been a trained nurse,

ON THE FEVER SHIP

first in Berlin, and later in the London Hospital
in Whitechapel, and at Bellevue. The nurse
was dressed in white, and wore a little silver
medal at her throat; and she was strong enough
to lift a volunteer out of his cot and hold him
easily in her arms, while one of the convales
cents pulled his cot out of the rain. Some of
the men called her "nurse"; others, who wore
scapulars around their necks, called her "Sis
ter"; and the officers of the medical staff
addressed her as Miss Bergen.

" Miss Bergen halted beside the cot of the Lieu
tenant and asked, "Is this the fever case you
spoke about, Doctor — the one you want moved
to the officers' ward?" She slipped her hand
up under his sleeve and felt his wrist.

"His pulse is very high," she said to the stew
ard. "When did you take his temperature?"
She drew a little morocco case from her pocket
and from that took a clinical thermometer,
which she shook up and down, eying the patient
meanwhile with a calm, impersonal scrutiny.
The Lieutenant raised his head and stared up
at the white figure beside his cot. His eyes
opened and then shut quickly, with a startled
look, in which doubt struggled with wonderful
happiness. His hand stole out fearfully and
warily until it touched her apron, and then,
finding it was real, he clutched it desperately,

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ON THE FEVER SHIP

and twisting his face and body toward her, pulled
her down, clasping her hands in both of his,
and pressing them close to his face and eyes
and lips. He put them from him for an instant,
and looked at her through his tears.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, "sweetheart, I
knew you'd come."

As the nurse knelt on the deck beside him, her
thermometer slipped from her fingers and broke,
and she gave an exclamation of annoyance.
The young Doctor picked up the pieces and
tossed them overboard. Neither of them spoke,
but they smiled Appreciatively. The Lieu
tenant was looking at the nurse with the wonder
and hope and hunger of soul in his eyes with
which a dying man looks at the cross the priest
holds up before him. What he saw where the
German nurse was kneeling was a tall, fair girl
with great bands and masses of hair, with a
head rising like a lily from a firm, white throat,
set on broad shoulders above a straight back
and sloping breast — a tall, beautiful creature,
half-girl, half-woman, who looked back at him
shyly, but steadily.

"Listen," he said.

The voice of the sick man was so sure and so
sane that the young Doctor started, and moved
nearer to the head of the cot. " Listen, dearest,"
the Lieutenant whispered. "I wanted to tell

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ON THE FEVER SHIP

you before I came South. But I did not dare;
and then I was afraid something might happen
to me, and I could never tell you, and you would
never know. So I wrote it to you in the will
I made at Baiquiri, the night before the land
ing. If you hadn't come now, you would have
learned it in that way. You would have read
there that there never was any one but you; the
rest were all dream people, foolish, silly — mad.
There is no one else in the world but you; you
have been the only thing in life that has counted.
I thought I might do something down here that
would make you care. But I got shot going
up a hill, and after that I wasn't able to do any
thing. It was very hot, and the hills were on
fire; and they took me prisoner, and kept me
tied down here, burning on these coals. I
can't live much longer, but now that I have
told you I can have peace. They tried to kill
me before you came; but they didn't know I
loved you, they didn't know that men who love
you can't die. They tried to starve my love,
for you, to burn it out of me; they tried to
reach it with their knives. But my love for
you is my soul, and they can't kill a man's
soul. Dear heart, I have lived because you
lived. Now that you know — now that you
understand — what does it matter?"
Miss Bergen shook her head with great

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ON THE FEVER SHIP

vigor. "Nonsense," she said, cheerfully.
"You are not going to die. As soon as we move
you out of this rain, and some food cook "

"Good God!" cried the young Doctor, sav
agely. "Do you want to kill him?"

When she spoke, the patient had thrown his
arms heavily across his face, and had fallen
back, lying rigid on the pillow.

The Doctor led the way across the prostrate
bodies, apologizing as he went. " I am sorry I
spoke so quickly," he said, "but he thought
you were real. I mean he thought you were
some one he really knew "

"He was just delirious," said the German
nurse, calmly.

The Doctor mixed himself a Scotch and soda
and drank it with a single gesture.

"Ugh !" he said to the ward-room. "I feel as
though Pd been opening another man's letters."

The transport drove through the empty seas
with heavy, clumsy upheavals, rolling like a
buoy. Having been originally intended for the
freight-carrying trade, she had no sympathy
with hearts that beat for a sight of their native
land, or for lives that counted their remaining
minutes by the throbbing of her engines. Oc
casionally, without apparent reason, she was
thrown violently from her course; but it was

135

ON THE FEVER SHIP

invariably the case that when her stern went
to starboard, something splashed in the water
on her port side and drifted past her, until,
when it had cleared the blades of her propeller,
a voice cried out, and she was swung back on
her home-bound track again.

The Lieutenant missed the familiar palms
and the tiny block-house; and seeing nothing
beyond the iron rails but great wastes of gray
water, he decided he was on board a prison-
ship, or that he had been strapped to a raft
and cast adrift. People came for hours at a
time and stood at the foot of his cot, and talked
with him and he to them — people he had loved
and people he had long forgotten, some of
whom he had thought were dead. One of them
he could have sworn he had seen buried in a deep
trench, and covered with branches of palmetto.
He had heard the bugler, with tears choking
him, sound "taps"; and with his own hand he
had placed the dead man's campaign hat on
the mound of fresh earth above the grave.
Yet here he was still alive, and he came with
other men of his troop to speak to him; but
when he reached out to them they were gone —
the real and the unreal, the dead and the living
— and even She disappeared whenever he tried
to take her hand, and sometimes the hospital
steward drove her away.

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ON THE FEVER SHIP

"Did that young lady say when she was
coming back again?" he asked the steward.

"The young lady! What young lady?"
asked the steward, wearily.

"The one who has been sitting there," he
answered. He pointed with his gaunt hand at
the man in the next cot.

"Oh, 'that young lady. Yes, she's coming
back. She's just gone below to fetch you some
hardtack."

The young volunteer in the next cot whined
grievously.

"That crazy man gives me the creeps," he
groaned. "He's always waking me up, and
looking at me as though he was going to eat

me."

"Shut your head," said the steward. "He's
a better crazy man than you'll ever be with
the little sense you've got. And he has two
Mauser holes in him. Crazy, eh? It's a
damned good thing for you that there was about
four thousand of us regulars just as crazy as
him, or you'd never seen the top of the hill."

One morning there was a great commotion on
deck, and all the convalescents balanced them
selves on the rail, shivering in their pajamas,
and pointed one way. The transport was
moving swiftly and smoothly through water
as flat as a lake, and making a great noise with

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ON THE FEVER SHIP

her steam-whistle. The noise was echoed by
many more steam-whistles; and the ghosts of
out-bound ships and tugs and excursion steam
ers ran past her out of the mist and disappeared,
saluting joyously. All of the excursion steamers
had a heavy list to the side nearest the trans
port, and the ghosts on them crowded to that
rail and waved handkerchiefs and cheered.
The fog lifted suddenly, and between the iron
rails the Lieutenant saw high green hills on
either side of a great harbor. Houses and trees
and thousands of masts swept past like a pano
rama; and beyond was a mirage of three cities,
with curling smoke-wreaths and sky-reaching
buildings, and a great swinging bridge, and a
giant statue of a woman waving a welcome
home.

The Lieutenant surveyed the spectacle with
cynical disbelief. He was far too wise and far
too cunning to be bewitched by it. In his
heart he pitied the men about him, who laughed
wildly, and shouted, and climbed recklessly to
the rails and ratlines. He had been deceived
too often not to know that it was not real. He
knew from cruel experience that in a few mo
ments the tall buildings would crumble away,
the thousands of columns of white smoke that
flashed like snow in the sun, the busy, shrieking
tug-boats, and the great statue would vanish

138

ON THE FEVER SHIP

into the sea, leaving it gray and bare. He
closed his eyes and shut the vision out. It
was so beautiful that it tempted him; but he
would not be mocked, and he buried his face in
his hands. They were carrying the farce too
far, he thought. It was really too absurd; for
now they were at a wharf which was so real
that, had he not known by previous suffering,
he would have been utterly deceived by it.
And there were great crowds of smiling, cheering
people, and a waiting guard of honor in fresh
uniforms, and rows of police pushing the people
this way and that; and these men about him
were taking it all quite seriously, and making
ready to disembark, carrying their blanket-rolls
and rifles with them.

A band was playing joyously, and the man in
the next cot, who was being lifted to a stretcher,
said, "There's the Governor and his staff;
that's him in the high hat." It was really very
well done. The Custom-House and the Ele
vated Railroad and Castle Garden were as like
to life as a photograph, and the crowd was as
well handled as a mob in a play. His heart
ached for it so that he could not bear the pain,
and he turned his back on it. It was cruel to
keep it up so long. His keeper lifted him in
his arms, and pulled him into a dirty uniform
which had belonged, apparently, to a much

139

ON THE FEVER SHIP

larger man — a man who had been killed prob
ably, for there were dark brown marks of blood
on the tunic and breeches. When he tried to
stand on his feet, Castle Garden and the Bat
tery disappeared in a black cloud of night, just
as he knew they would; but when he opened
his eyes from the stretcher, they had returned
again. It was a most remarkably vivid vision.
They kept it up so well. Now the young Doctor
and the hospital steward were pretending to
carry him down a gangplank and into an open
space; and he saw quite close to him a long line
policemen, and behind them thousands of faces,
some of them women's faces — women who
pointed at him and then shook their heads and
cried, and pressed their hands to their cheeks,
still looking at him. He wondered why they
cried. He did not know them, nor did they
know him. No one knew him; these people
were only ghosts.

There was a quick parting in the crowd. A
man he had once known shoved two of the po
licemen to one side, and he heard a girl's voice
speaking his name, like a sob; and She came
running out across the open space and fell on
her knees beside the stretcher, and bent down
over him, and he was clasped in two young,
firm arms.

"Of course it is not real, of course it is not
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ON THE FEVER SHIP

She," he assured himself. "Because She would
not do such a thing. " Before aK these people
She would not do it."

But he trembled and his heart throbbed so
cruelly that he could not bear the pain.

She was pretending to cry.

"They wired us you had started for Tampa
on the hospital ship," She was saying, "and
Aunt and I went all the way there before we
heard you had been sent North. We have
been on the cars a week. That is why I missed
you. Do you understand? It was not my fault.
I tried to come. Indeed, I tried to come."

She turned her head and looked up fearfully
at the young Doctor.

"Tell me, why does he look at me like that?"
she asked. "He doesn't know me. Is he very
ill? Tell me the truth." She drew in her
breath quickly. "Of course you will tell me
the truth."

When she asked the question he felt her arms
draw tight about his shoulders. It was as
though she was holding him to herself, and from
some one who had reached out for him. In
his trouble he turned to his old friend and
keeper. His voice was hoarse and very low.

"Is this the same young lady who was on
the transport — the one you used to drive
away?"

141

ON THE FEVER SHIP

In his embarrassment, the hospital steward
blushed under his tan, and stammered.

"Of course it's the same young lady," the
Doctor answered, briskly. "And I won't
let them drive her away." He turned to
her, smiling gravely, "I think his condition
has ceased to be dangerous, madam," he
said.

People who in a former existence had been
his friends, and Her brother, gathered about
his stretcher and bore him through the crowd
and lifted him into a carriage filled with cush
ions, among which he sank lower and lower.
Then She sat beside him, and he heard Her
brother say to the coachman, "Home, and drive
slowly and keep on the asphalt."

The carriage moved forward, and She put
her arm about him, and his head fell on her
shoulder, and neither of them spoke. The
vision had lasted so long now that he was torn
with the joy that after all it might be real.
But he could not bear the awakening if it were
not, so he raised his head fearfully and looked
up into the beautiful eyes above him. His
brows were knit, and he struggled with a great
doubt and an awful joy.

"Dearest," he said, "is it real?"

"Is it real?" she repeated.

Even as a dream, it was so wonderfully beau-
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ON THE FEVER SHIP

tiful that he was satisfied if it could only con
tinue so, if but for a little while.

"Do you think," he begged again, trembling,
"that it is going to last much longer?"

She smiled, and, bending her head slowly,
kissed him.

"It is going to last — always," she said.

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

PRENTISS had a long lease on the house,
and because it stood in Jermyn Street the
upper floors were, as a matter of course, turned
into lodgings for single gentlemen; and because
Prentiss was a Florist to the Queen, he placed a
lion and unicorn over his flower-shop, just in
front of the middle window on the first floor.
By stretching a little, each of them could see
into the window just beyond him, and could
hear all that was said inside; and such things
as they saw and heard during the reign of Cap
tain Carrington, who moved in at the same time
they did! By day the table in the centre of
the room was covered with maps, and the
Captain sat with a box of pins, with different-
colored flags wrapped around them, and amused
himself by sticking them in the maps and mea
suring the spaces in between, swearing mean
while to himself. It was a selfish amusement, but
it appeared to be the Captain's only intellectual
pursuit, for at night the maps were rolled up,
and a green cloth was spread across the table,
and there was much company and popping of
soda-bottles, and little heaps of gold and silver

144

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

were moved this way and that across the cloth.
The smoke drifted out of the open windows,
and the laughter of the Captain's guests rang
out loudly in the empty street, so that the po
liceman halted and raised his eyes reprovingly,
to the lighted windows, and cabmen drew up
beneath them and lay in wait, dozing on their
folded arms, for the Captain's guests to depart.
The Lion and the Unicorn were rather ashamed
of the scandal of it, and they were glad when,
one day, the Captain went away with his tin
boxes and gun-cases piled high on a four-wheeler.
Prentiss stood on the sidewalk and said, "I
wish you good luck, sir." And the Captain
said, "I'm coming back a Major, Prentiss."
But he never came back. And one day — the
Lion remembered the day very well, for on that
same day the newsboys ran up and down
Jermyn Street shouting out the news of "a
'orrible disaster" to the British arms. It was
then that a young lady came to the door in a
hansom, and Prentiss went out to meet her and
led her up-stairs. They* heard him unlock the
Captain's door and say, "This is his room,
miss," and after he had gone they watched her
standing quite still by the centre-table. She
stood there a very long time looking slowly
about her, and then she took a photograph of
the Captain from the frame on the mantel and

145

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

slipped it into her pocket, and when she went
out again her veil was down, and she was crying.
She must have given Prentiss as much as a
sovereign, for he called her "Your ladyship,"
which he never did under a sovereign.

And she drove off, and they never saw her
' again either, nor could they hear the address
she gave the cabman. But it was somewhere
up St. John's Wood way.

After that the rooms were empty for some
months, and the Lion and the Unicorn were
forced to amuse themselves with the beautiful
ladies and smart-looking men who came to
Prentiss to buy flowers and "buttonholes," and
the little round baskets of strawberries, and
even the peaches at three shillings each, which
looked so tempting as they lay in the window,
wrapped up in cotton-wool, like jewels of great
price.

Then Philip Carroll, the American gentleman,
came, and they heard Prentiss telling him that
those rooms had always let for five guineas a
week, which they knew was not true; but they
also knew that in the economy of nations there
must always be a higher price for the rich Amer
ican, or else why was he given that strange
accent, except to betray him into the hands of
the London shopkeeper, and the London cabby?

The American walked to the window toward
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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

the west, which was the window nearest the
Lion, and looked out into the graveyard of St.
James's Church, that stretched between their
street and Piccadilly.

"You're lucky in having a bit of green to
look out on," he said to Prentiss. "I'll take
these rooms — at five guineas. That's more
than they're worth, you know, but as I know
it, too, your conscience needn't trouble you."

Then his eyes fell on the Lion, and he nodded
to him gravely. "How do you do?" he said.
"I'm coming to live with you for a little time.
I have read about you and your friends over
there. It is a hazard of new fortunes with me,
your Majesty, so be kind to me, and if I win, I
will put a new coat of paint on your shield and
gild you all over again."

Prentiss smiled obsequiously at the Ameri
can's pleasantry, but the new lodger only stared
at him.

"He seemed a social gentleman," said the.
Unicorn, that night, when the Lion and he were&
talking it over. "Now the Captain, the whole
time he was here, never gave us so much as a
look. This one says he has read of us."

"And why not?" growled the Lion. "I
hope Prentiss heard what he said of our needing
a new layer of gilt. It's disgraceful. You can
see that Lion over Scarlett's, the butcher, as

147

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

far as Regent Street, and Scarlett is only one
of Salisbury's creations. He received his Let
ters-Patent only two years back. We date
from Palmerston."

The lodger came up the street just at that
moment, and stopped and looked up at the
Lion and the Unicorn from the sidewalk, before
he opened the door with his night-key. They
heard him enter the room and feel on the man
tel for his pipe, and a moment later he appeared
at the Lion's window and leaned on the sill,
looking down into the street below and blowing
whiffs of smoke up into the warm night-air.

It was a night in June, and the pavements
were dry under foot and the streets were filled
with well-dressed people, going home from the
play, and with groups of men in black and
white, making their way to supper at the clubs.
Hansoms of inky-black, with shining lamps
inside and out, dashed noiselessly past on mys
terious errands, chasing close on each other's
heels on a mad race, each to its separate goal.
From the cross streets rose the noises of early
night, the rumble of the 'buses, the creaking of
their brakes as they unlocked, the cries of the
"extras," and the merging of thousands of
human voices in a dull murmur. The great
world of London was closing its shutters for
the night and putting out the lights; and the

148

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

new lodger from across the sea listened to it
with his heart beating quickly, and laughed to
stifle the touch of fear and homesickness that
rose in him.

"I have seen a great play to-night," he said
to the Lion, "nobly played by great players.
What will they care for my poor wares? I see
that I have been over-bold. But we cannot go
back now — not yet."

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and
nodded "good-night" to the great world be
yond his window. "What fortunes lie with
ye, ye lights of London town?" he quoted,
smiling. And they heard him close the door
of his bedroom, and lock it for the night.

The next morning he bought many geraniums
from Prentiss and placed them along the broad
cornice that stretched across the front of the
house over the shop-window. The flowers made
a band of scarlet on either side of the Lion as
brilliant as a Tommy's jacket.

"I am trying to propitiate the British Lion
by placing flowers before his altar," the Ameri
can said that morning to a visitor.

"The British public, you mean," said the visi
tor; "they are each likely to tear you to pieces."

"Yes, I have heard that the pit on the first
night of a bad play is something awful," hazarded
the American.

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

"Wait and see," said the visitor.

"Thank you," said the American, meekly.

Every one who came to the first floor front
talked about a play. It seemed to be something
of great moment to the American. It was only
a bundle of leaves printed in red and black inks
and bound in brown paper covers. There were
two of them, and the American called them by
different names: one was his comedy and one
was his tragedy.

"They are both likely to be tragedies," the
Lion heard one of the visitors say to another,
as they drove away together. "Our young
friend takes it too seriously."

The American spent most of his time by his
desk at the window writing on little blue pads
and tearing up what he wrote, or in reading
over one of the plays to himself in a loud voice.
In time the number of his visitors increased,
and to some of these he would read his play;
and after they had left him he was either de
pressed and silent or excited and jubilant.
The Lion could always tell when he was happy
because then he would go to the side table and
pour himself out a drink and say, "Here's to
me," but when he was depressed he would stand
holding the glass in his hand, and finally pour
the liquor back into the bottle again and say,
"What's the use of that?"

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

After he had been in London a month he wrote
less and was more frequently abroad, sallying
forth in beautiful raiment, and coming home
by daylight.

And he gave suppers, too, but they were less
noisy than the Captain's had been, and the
women who came to them were much more
beautiful, and their voices when they spoke
were sweet and low. Sometimes one of the
women sang, and the men sat in silence while
the people in the street below stopped to listen,
and would say, "Why, that is So-and-So sing
ing," and the Lion and the Unicorn wondered
how they could know who it was when they
could not see her.

The lodger's visitors came to see him at all
hours. They seemed to regard his rooms as a
club, where they could always come for a bite
to eat or to write notes; and others treated it
like a lawyer's office and asked advice on all
manner of strange subjects. Sometimes the
visitor wanted to know whether the American
thought she ought to take £10 a week and go
on tour, or stay in town and try to live on £8;
or whether she should paint landscapes that
would not sell, or race-horses that would; or
whether Reggie really loved her and whether
she really loved Reggie; or whether the new
part in the piece at the Court was better than

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

the old part at Terry's, and wasn't she getting
too old to play "ingenues" anyway.

The lodger seemed to be a general adviser,
and smoked and listened with grave considera
tion, and the Unicorn thought his judgment
was most sympathetic and sensible.

Of all the beautiful ladies who came to call
on the lodger the one the Unicorn liked the best
was the one who wanted to know whether she
loved Reggie and whether Reggie loved her.
She discussed this so interestingly while she
consumed tea and thin slices of bread that the
Unicorn almost lost his balance in leaning for
ward to listen. Her name was Marion Caven
dish, and it was written over many photographs
which stood in silver frames in the lodger's
rooms. She used to make the tea herself,
while the lodger sat and smoked; and she had
a fascinating way of doubling the thin sKces of
bread into long strips and nibbling at them like
a mouse at a piece of cheese. She had wonder
ful little teeth and Cupid's-bow lips, and she
had a fashion of lifting her veil only high enough
for one to see the two Cupid's-bow lips. When
she did that the American used to laugh, at
nothing apparently, and say, "Oh, I guess
Reggie loves you well enough."

"But do I love Reggie?" she would ask,
sadly, with her teacup held poised in air.

152

Consumed tea and thin slices of bread.

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

"I am sure I hope not," the lodger would
reply, and she would put down the veil quickly,
as one would drop a curtain over a beautiful
picture, and rise with great dignity and say,
"If you talk like that I shall not come again."

She was sure that if she could only get some
work to do her head would be filled with more
important matters than whether Reggie loved
her or not.

"But the managers seem inclined to cut their
cavendish very fine just at present," she said.
"If I don't get a part soon," she announced, "I
shall ask Mitchell to put me down on the list
for recitations at evening parties."

"That seems a desperate revenge," said the
American; "and besides, I don't want you to
get a part, because some one might be idiotic
enough to take my comedy, and if he should,
you must play Nancy."

"I would not ask for any salary if I could
play Nancy," Miss Cavendish answered.

They spoke of a great many things, but their
talk always ended by her saying that there
must be some one with sufficient sense to see
that his play was a great play, and by his
saying that none but she must play Nancy.

The Lion preferred the tall girl with masses
and folds of brown hair, who came from America
to paint miniatures of the British aristocracy.

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

Her name was Helen Cabot, and *ie liked her
because she was so brave and fearless, and so
determined to be independent of every one,
even of the lodger — especially of the lodger,
who, it appeared, had known her very well
at home. The lodger, they gathered, did not
wish her to be independent of him, and the
two Americans had many arguments and dis
putes about it, but she always said, "It does
no good, Philip; it only hurts us both when
you talk so. i care for nothing, and for no one
but my art, and, poor as it is, it means every
thing to me, and you do not, and, of course,
the man I am to marry must." Then Carroll
would talk, walking up and down, and looking
very fierce and determined, and telling her how
he loved her in such a way that it made her
look «ven more proud and beautiful. And she
would say more gently, " It is very fine to think
that any one can care for me like that, and very-
helpful. But unless I cared in the same way
it would be wicked of me to marry you, and
besides — " She would add very quickly to
prevent his speaking again — "I don't want to
marry you or anybody, and I never shall. I
want to be free and to succeed in my work, just
as you want to succeed in your work. So please
never speak of this again." When she went
away the lodger used to sit smoking in the big

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

arm-chair and beat the arms with his hands,
and he would pace up and down the room, while
his work would lie untouched and his engage
ments pass forgotten.

Summer came and London was deserted,
dull, and dusty, but the lodger stayed on in
Jermyn Str'eet. Helen Cabot had departed on
a round of visits to country-houses in Scotland,
where, as she wrote him, she was painting min
iatures of her hosts and studying the game of
golf. Miss Cavendish divided her days be
tween the river and one of the West End thea
tres. She was playing a small part in a farce-
comedy.

One day she came up from Cookham earlier
than usual, looking very beautiful in a white
boating-frock and a straw hat with a Leander
ribbon. Her hands and arms were hard with
dragging a punting-hole, and she was sunburnt
and happy, and hungry for tea.

"Why don't you come down to Cookham and
get out of this heat?" Miss Cavendish asked.
"You need it; you look ill."

" I'd like to, but I can't," said Carroll. "The
fact is, I paid in advance for these rooms, and
if I lived anywhere else I'd be losing five guineas
a week on them."

Miss Cavendish regarded him severely. She
had never quite mastered his American humor.

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"But — five guineas — why, that's nothing to
you," she said. Something in the lodger's face
made her pause. "You don't mean "

"Yes, I do," said the lodger, smiling. "You
see, I started in to lay siege to London without
sufficient ammunition. London is a large town,
and it didn't fall as quickly as I thought it
would. So I am economizing. Mr. Lockhart's
Coffee Rooms and I are no longer strangers."

Miss Cavendish put down her cup of tea
untasted and leaned toward him.

"Are you in earnest?" she asked. "For how
long?" '

"Oh, for the last month," replied the lodger;
"they are not at all bad — clean and wholesome
and all that."

"But the suppers you gave us, and this," she
cried, suddenly, waving her hands over the
pretty tea-things, "and the cake and muffins?"

"My friends, at least," said Carroll, "need
not go to Lockhart's."

"And the Savoy?" asked Miss Cavendish,
mournfully shaking her head.

"A dream of the past," said Carroll, waving
his pipe through the smoke. "Gatti's? Yes,
on special occasions; but for necessity the
Chancellor's, where one gets a piece of the
prime roast beef of Old England, from Chi
cago, and potatoes for ninepence — a pot of

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bitter twopence-halfpenny, and a penny for the
waiter. It's most amusing on the whole. I
am learning a little about London, and some
things about myself. They are both most
interesting subjects."

"Well, I don't like it," Miss Cavendish de
clared, helplessly. "When I think of those sup
pers and the flowers, I feel — I feel like a robber."

"Don't," begged Carroll. "I am really the
most happy of men — that is, as the chap says
in the play, I would be if I wasn't so damned
miserable. But I owe no man a penny and I
have assets — I have £80 to last me through the
winter and two marvellous plays; and I love,
next to yourself, the most wonderful woman
God ever made. That's enough."

" But I thought you made such a lot of money
by writing?" asked Miss Cavendish.

"I do — that is, I could," answered Carroll,
"if I wrote the things that sell; but I keep on
writing plays that won't."

"And such plays!" exclaimed Marion,
warmly; "and to think that they are going
begging!" She continued, indignantly, "I can't
imagine what the managers do want."

"I know what they don't want," said the
American. Miss Cavendish drummed impa
tiently on the tea-tray.

"I wish you wouldn't be so abject about it,"
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she said. " If I were a man I'd make them take
those plays."

" How ? " asked the American ; " with a gun ? "

"Well, I'd keep at it until they read them,"
declared Marion. "I'd sit on their front steps
all night and I'd follow them in cabs, and I'd
lie in wait for them at the stage-door. I'd just
make them take them."

Carroll sighed and stared at the ceiling. "I
guess I'll give up and go home," he said.

"Oh, yes, do, run away before you are beaten,"
said Miss Cavendish, scornfully. "Why, you
can't go now. Everybody will be back in town
soon, and there are a lot of new plays coming
on, and some of them are sure to be failures,
and that's our chance. You rush in with your
piece, and somebody may take it sooner than
close the theatre."

"I'm thinking of closing the theatre myself,"
said Carroll. "What's the use of my hanging
on here?" he exclaimed. "It distresses Helen
to know I am in London, feeling about her as I
do — and the Lord only knows how it distresses
me. And, maybe, if I went away," he said,
consciously, "she might miss me. She might
see the difference."

Miss Cavendish held herself erect and pressed
her lips together with a severe smile. "If
Helen Cabot doesn't see the difference between

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you and the other men she knows now/' she
said, " I doubt if she ever will. Besides — " she
continued, and then hesitated.

"Well, go on," urged Carroll.

"Well, I was only going to say," she explained,
"that leaving the girl alone never did the man
any good unless he left her alone willingly. If
she's sure he still cares, it's just the same to her
where he is. He might as well stay on in Lon
don as go to South Africa. It won't help him
any. The difference comes when she finds he
has stopped caring. Why, look at Reggie.
He tried that. He went away for ever so long,
but he kept writing me from wherever he went,
so that he was perfectly miserable — and I went
on enjoying myself. Then when he came back,
he tried going about with his old friends again.
He used to come to the theatre with them —
oh, with such nice girls ! — but he always stood
in the back of the box and yawned and scowled
—so I knew. And, anyway, he'd always spoil
it all by leaving them and waiting at the stage
entrance for me. But one day he got tired of
the way I treated him and went off on a bicycle-
tour with Lady Hacksher's girls and some men
from his regiment, and he was gone three weeks,
and never sent me even a line; and I got so
scared; I couldn't sleep, and I stood it for three
days more, and then I wired him to come back

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or I'd jump off London Bridge; and he came
back that very night from Edinburgh on the
express, and I was so glad to see him that I got
confused, and in the general excitement I prom
ised to marry him, so that's how it was with

us.'3

"Yes," said the American, without enthu
siasm; "but then I still care, and Helen knows
I care."

"Doesn't she ever fancy that you might care
for some one else? You have a lot of friends,
you know."

"Yes, but she knows they are just that —
friends," said the American.

Miss Cavendish stood up to go, and arranged
her veil before the mirror above the fireplace.

"I come here very often to tea," she said.

"It's very kind of you," said Carroll. He
was at the open window, looking down into the
street for a cab.

"Well, no one knows I am engaged to Reg
gie," continued Miss Cavendish, "except you
and Reggie, and he isn't so sure. She doesn't
know it."

"Well?" said Carroll.

Miss Cavendish smiled a mischievous, kindly
smile at him from the mirror.

"Well?" she repeated, mockingly. Carroll
stared at her and laughed. After a pause he

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said: "It's like a plot in a comedy. But I'm
afraid I'm too serious for play-acting."

"Yes, it is serious," said Miss Cavendish.
She seated herself again and regarded the
American thoughtfully. "You are too good a
man to be treated the way that girl is treating
you, and no one knows it better than she does.
She'll change in time, but just now she thinks
she wants to be independent. She's in love
with this picture-painting idea, and with the
people she meets. It's all new to her — the fuss
they make over her and the titles, and the way
she is asked about. We know she can't paint.
We know they only give her commissions be
cause she's so young and pretty, and American.
She amuses them, that's all. Well, that cannot
last; she'll find it out. She's too clever a girl,
and she is too fine a girl to be content with that
long. Then — then she'll come back to you.
She feels now that she has both you and the
others, and she's making you wait; so wait
and be cheerful. She's worth waiting for; she's
young, that's all. She'll see the difference in
time. But, in the meanwhile, it would hurry
matters a bit if she thought she had to choose
between the new friends and you."

"She could still keep her friends and marry
me," said Carroll; "I have told her that a
hundred times. She could still paint minia-

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tures and marry me. But she won't marry

me."

"She won't marry you because she knows she
can whenever she wants to," cried Marion.
"Can't you see that? But if she thought you
were going to marry some one else now?"

"She would be the first to congratulate me,"
said Carroll. He rose and walked to the fire
place, where he leaned with his arm on the
mantel. There was a photograph of Helen
Cabot near his hand, and he turned this toward
him and stood for some time staring at it. " My
dear Marion," he said at last, "I've known
Helen ever since she was as young as that.
Every year I've loved her more, and found new
things in her to care for; now I love her more
than any other man ever loved any other

woman.'3

Miss Cavendish shook her head sympathet
ically.

"Yes, I know," she said; "that's the way
Reggie loves me, too."

Carroll went on as though he had not heard
her.

"There's a bench in St. James's Park," he
said, "where we used to sit when she first came
here, when she didn't know so many people.
We used to go there in the morning and throw
penny buns to the ducks. That's been my

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amusement this summer since you've all been
away — sitting on that bench, feeding penny
buns to the silly ducks— especially the black
one, the one she used to like best. And I make
pilgrimages to all the other places we ever
visited together, and try to pretend she is with
me. And I support the crossing sweeper at
Lansdowne Passage because she once said she
felt sorry for him. I do all the other absurd
things that a man in love tortures himself by
doing. But to what end? She knows how I
care, and yet she won't see why we can't go on
being friends as we once were. What's the use
of it all?"

"She is young, I tell you," repeated Miss
Cavendish, "and she's too sure of you. You've
told her you care; now try making her think
you don't care."

Carroll shook his head impatiently.

" I will not stoop to such tricks and pretense,
Marion," he cried, impatiently. "All I have
is my love for her; if I have to cheat and to
trap her into caring, the whole thing would be
degraded."

Miss Cavendish shrugged her shoulders and
walked to the door. "Such amateurs!" she
exclaimed, and banged the door after her.

Carroll never quite knew how he had come to
make a confidante of Miss Cavendish. Helen

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and he had met her when they first arrived in
London, and as she had acted for a season in
the United States, she adopted the two Ameri
cans — and told Helen where to go for boots and
hats, and advised Carroll about placing his
plays. Helen soon made other friends, and
deserted the artists with whom her work had
first thrown her. She seemed to prefer the
society of the people who bought her paintings,
and who admired and made much of the painter.
As she was very beautiful and at an age when
she enjoyed everything in life keenly and
eagerly, to give her pleasure was in itself a
distinct pleasure; and the worldly tired people
she met were considering their own entertain
ment quite as much as hers when they asked
her to their dinners and dances, or to spend a
week with them in the country. In her way,
she was as independent as was Carroll in his,
and as she was not in love, as he was, her life
was not narrowed down to but one ideal. But
she was not so young as to consider herself
infallible, and she had one excellent friend on
whom she was dependent for advice and to
whose directions she submitted implicitly. This
was Lady Cower, the only person to whom Helen
had spoken of Carroll and of his great feeling
for her. Lady Cower, immediately after her
marriage, had been a conspicuous and brilliant

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figure in that set in London which works
eighteen hours a day to keep itself amused, but
after the death of her husband she had disap
peared into the country as completely as though
she had entered a convent, and after several
years had then re-entered the world as a pro
fessional philanthropist. Her name was now
associated entirely with Women's Leagues, with
committees that presented petitions to Parlia
ment, and with public meetings, at which she
spoke with marvellous ease and effect. Her
old friends said she had taken up this new pose
as an outlet for her nervous energies, and as an
effort to forget the man who alone had made
life serious to her. Others knew her as an
earnest woman, acting honestly for what she
thought was right. Her success, all admitted,
was due to her knowledge of the world and to
her sense of humor, which taught her with whom
to use her wealth and position, and when to
demand what she wanted solely on the ground
that the cause was just.

She had taken more than a fancy for Helen,
and the position of the beautiful, motherless
girl had appealed to her as one filled with
dangers. When she grew to know Helen better,
she recognized that these fears were quite un
necessary, and as she saw more of her she
learned to care for her deeply. Helen had told

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her much of Carroll and of his double purpose
in coming to London; of his brilliant work and
his lack of success in having it recognized; and
of his great and loyal devotion to her, and of
his lack of success, not in having that recog
nized, but in her own inability to return it.
Helen was proud that she had been able to make
Carroll care for her as he did, and that 'there
was anything about her which could inspire a
man whom she admired so much to believe in
her so absolutely and for so long a time. But
what convinced her that the outcome for which
he hoped was impossible, was the very fact that
she could admire him, and see how fine and
unselfish his love for her was, and yet remain
untouched by it.

She had been telling Lady Gower one day of
the care he had taken of her ever since she was
fourteen years of age, and had quoted some of
the friendly and loverlike acts he had performed
in her service, until one day they had both
found out that his attitude of the elder brother
was no longer possible, and that he loved her
in the old and only way. Lady Gower looked
at her rather doubtfully and smiled.

"I wish you would bring him to see me,
Helen," she said; "I think I should like your
friend very much. From what you tell me of
him I doubt if you will find many such men

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waiting for you in this country. Our men
marry for reasons of property, or they love
blindly, and are exacting and selfish before and
after they are married. I know, because so
many women came to me when my husband
was alive to ask how it was that I continued so
happy in my married life."

"But I don't want to marry any one," Helen
remonstrated, gently. "American girls are not
always thinking only of getting married."

"What I meant was this," said Lady Gower:
"that, in my experience, I have heard of but
few men who care in the way this young man
seems to care for you. You say you do not
love him; but if he had wanted to gain my
interest, he could not have pleaded his cause
better than you have done. He seems to see
your faults and yet love you still, in spite of
them — or on account of them. And I like the
things he does for you. I like, for instance, his
sending you the book of the moment every
week for two years. That shows a most un
swerving spirit of devotion. And the story of
the broken bridge in the woods is a wonderful
story. If I were a young girl, I could love a
man for that alone. It was a beautiful thing
to do."

Helen sat with her chin on her hands, deeply
considering this new point of view.

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

"I thought it very foolish of him," she con
fessed, questioningly, "to take such a risk for
such a little thing."

Lady Gower smiled down at her from the
height of her many years.

"Wait," she said, dryly, "you are very young
now — and very rich; every one is crowding to
give you pleasure, to show his admiration.
You are a very fortunate girl. But later, these
things which some man has done because he
loved you, and which you call foolish, will
grow large in your life, and shine out strongly,
and when you are discouraged and alone, you
will take them out, and the memory of them will
make you proud and happy. They are the
honors which women wear in secret."

Helen came back to town in September, and
for the first few days was so occupied in re
furnishing her studio and in visiting the shops
that she neglected to send Carroll word of her
return. When she found that a whole week
had passed without her having made any effort
to see him, and appreciated how the fact would
hurt her friend, she was filled with remorse,
and drove at once in great haste to Jermyn
Street, to announce her return in person. On
the way she decided that she would soften the
blow of her week of neglect by asking him to
take her out to luncheon. This privilege she

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had once or twice accorded him, and she felt
that the pleasure these excursions gave Carroll
were worth the consternation they caused to
Lady Gower.

The servant was uncertain whether Mr. Car
roll was at home or not, but Helen was too
intent upon making restitution to wait for the
fact to be determined, and, running up the
stairs, knocked sharply at the door of his study.

A voice bade her come in, and she entered,
radiant and smiling her welcome. But Carroll
was not there to receive it, and, instead, Marion
Cavendish looked up at her from his desk,
where she was busily writing. Helen paused
with a surprised laugh, but Marion sprang
up and hailed her gladly. They met half-way
across the room and kissed each other with
the most friendly feeling.

Philip was out, Marion said, and she had just
stepped in for a moment to write him a note.
If Helen would excuse her, she would finish it,
as she was late for rehearsal.

But she asked over her shoulder, with great
interest, if Helen had passed a pleasant summer.
She thought she had never seen her looking
so well. Helen thought Miss Cavendish herself
was looking very well also, but Marion said no;
that she was too sunburnt, she would not be
able to wear a dinner-dress for a month. There

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was a pause while Marion's quill scratched
violently across Carroll's note-paper. Helen
felt that in some way she was being treated as
an intruder; or worse, as a guest. She did not
sit down, it seemed impossible to do so, but she
moved uncertainly about the room. She noted
that there were many changes, it seemed more
bare and empty; her picture was still on the
writing-desk, but there were at least six new
photographs of Marion. Marion herself had
brought them to the room that morning, and
had carefully arranged them in conspicuous
places. But Helen could not know that. She
thought there was an unnecessary amount of
writing scribbled over the face of each.

Marion addressed her letter and wrote "Im
mediate" across the envelope, and placed it
before the clock on the mantel-shelf. "You
will find Philip looking very badly," she said,
as she pulled on her gloves. "He has been in
town all summer, working very hard — he has
had no holiday at all. I don't think he's well.
I have been a great deal worried about him,"
she added. Her face was bent over the buttons
of her glove, and when she raised her blue eyes
to Helen they were filled with serious concern.

"Really," Helen stammered, "I— I didn't
know — in his letters he seemed very cheerful."

Marion shook her head and turned and stood
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looking thoughtfully out of the window. "He's
in a very hard place," she began, abruptly, and
then stopped as though she had thought better
of what she intended to say. Helen tried to
ask her to go on, Sut could not bring herself to
do so. She wanted to get away.

"I tell him he ought to leave London,"
Marion began again; "he needs a change and
a rest."

"I should think he might," Helen agreed,
"after three months of this heat. He wrote
me he intended going to Herne Bay or over to
Ostend."

"Yes, he had meant to go," Marion answered.
She spoke with the air of one who possessed the
most intimate knowledge of Carroll's movements
and plans, and change of plans. "But he
couldn't," she added. "He couldn't afford it.
Helen," she said, turning to the other girl,
dramatically, "do you know — I believe that
Philip is very poor."

Miss Cabot exclaimed, incredulously, "Poor !"
She laughed. "Why, what do you mean?"

"I mean that he has no money," Marion
answered, sharply. "These rooms represent
nothing. He only keeps them on because he
paid for them in advance. He's been living on
three shillings a day. That's poor for him.
He takes his meals at cabmen's shelters and

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at Lockhart's, and he's been doing so for a
month/'

Helen recalled with a guilty thrill the receipt
of certain boxes of La France roses — cut long,
in the American fashion — which had arrived
within the last month at various country-
houses. She felt indignant at herself, and
miserable. Her indignation was largely due to
the recollection that she had given these flowers
to her hostess to decorate the dinner-table.

She hated to ask this girl of things which she
should have known better than any one else.
But she forced herself to do it. She felt she
must know certainly and at once.

"How do you know this?" she asked. ''Are
you sure there is no mistake?"

"He told me himself," said Marion, "when
he talked of letting the plays go and returning
to America. He said he must go back; that
his money was gone."

"He is gone to America !" Helen said, blankly.

"No, he wanted to go, but I wouldn't let
him," Marion went on. " I told him that some
one might take his play any day. And this
third one he has written, the one he finished
this summer in town, is the best of all, I think.
It's a love-story. It's quite beautiful." She
turned and arranged her veil at the glass, and
as she did so, her eyes fell on the photographs

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of herself scattered over the mantel-piece, and
she smiled slightly. But Helen did not see
her — she was sitting down now, pulling at the
books on the table. She was confused and dis
turbed by emotions which were quite strange
to her, and when Marion bade her good-by she
hardly noticed her departure. What impressed
her most of all in what Marion had told her
was, she was surprised to find, that Philip was
going away. That she herself had frequently
urged him to do so, for his own peace of mind,
seemed now of no consequence. Now that he
seriously contemplated it, she recognized that
his absence meant to her a change in every
thing. She felt for the first time the peculiar
place he held in her life. Even if she had seen
him but seldom, the fact that he was within
call had been more of a comfort and a necessity
to her than she understood.

That he was poor, concerned her chiefly be
cause she knew that, although this condition
could only be but temporary, it would distress
him not to have his friends around him, and to
entertain them as he had been used to do.
She wondered eagerly if she might offer to help
him, but a second thought assured her that,
for a man, that sort of help from a woman was
impossible.

She resented the fact that Marion was deep
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in his confidence; that it was Marion who had
told her of his changed condition and of his
plans. It annoyed her so acutely that she
could not remain in the room where she had
seen her so complacently in possession. And
after leaving a brief note for Philip, she went
away. She stopped a hansom at the door,
and told the man to drive along the Embank
ment — she wanted to be quite alone, and she
felt she could see no one until she had thought
it all out, and had analyzed the new feelings.

So for several hours she drove slowly up and
down, sunk far back in the cushions of the cab,
and staring with unseeing eyes at the white,
enamelled tariff and the black dash-board.

She assured herself that she was not jealous
of Marion, because, in order to be jealous, she
first would have to care for Philip in the very
way she could not bring herself to do.

She decided that his interest in Marion hurt
her, because it showed that Philip was not
capable of remaining true to the one ideal of
his life. She was sure that this explained her
feelings — she was disappointed that he had not
kept up to his own standard; that he was weak
enough to turn aside from it for the first pretty
pair of eyes. But she was too honest and too
just to accept that diagnosis of her feelings as
final — she knew there had been many pairs of

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eyes in America and in London, and that
though Philip had seen them, he had not an
swered them when they spoke. No, she con
fessed frankly, she was hurt with herself for
neglecting her old friend so selfishly and for so
long a time; his love gave him claims on her
consideration, at least, and she had forgotten
that and him, and had run after strange gods
and allowed others to come in and take her
place, and to give him the sympathy and help
which she should have been the first to offer,
and which would have counted more when
coming from her than from any one else. She
determined to make amends at once for her
thoughtlessness and selfishness, and her brain
was pleasantly occupied with plans and acts of
kindness. It was a new entertainment, and she
found she delighted in it. She directed the cab
man to go to Solomons's, and from there sent
Philip a bunch of flowers and a line saying that
on the following day she was coming to take
tea with him. She had a guilty feeling that
he might consider her friendly advances more
seriously than she meant them, but it was her
pleasure to be reckless: her feelings were run
ning riotously, and the sensation was so new
that she refused to be circumspect or to con
sider consequences. Who could tell, she asked
herself with a quick, frightened gasp, but that,

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

after all, it might be that she was learning to
care? From Solomons's she bade the man
drive to the shop in Cranbourne Street where
she was accustomed to purchase the materials
she used in painting, and Fate, which uses
strange agents to work out its ends, so directed
it that the cabman stopped a few doors below
this shop, and opposite one where jewelry and
other personal effects were bought and sold.
At any other time, or had she been in any other
mood, what followed might not have occurred,
but Fate, in the person of the cabman, arranged
it so that the hour and the opportunity came
together.

There were some old mezzotints in the win
dow of the loan-shop, a string of coins and
medals, a row of new French posters; and far
down to the front a tray filled with gold and
silver cigarette-cases and watches and rings.
It occurred to Helen, who was still bent on
making restitution for her neglect, that a
cigarette-case would be more appropriate for a
man than flowers, and more lasting. And she
scanned the contents of the window with the
eye of one who now saw in everything only
something which might give Philip pleasure.
The two objects of value in the tray upon which
her eyes first fell were the gold seal-ring with
which Philip had sealed his letters to her, and,

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

lying next to it, his gold watch! There was
something almost human in the way the ring
and watch spoke to her from the past — in the
way they appealed to her to rescue them from
the surroundings to which they had been
abandoned. She did not know what she meant
to do with them nor how she could return
them to Philip; but there was no question of
doubt in her manner as she swept with a rush
into the shop. There was no attempt, either,
at bargaining in the way in which she pointed
out to the young woman behind the counter the
particular ring and watch she wanted. They
had not been left as collateral, the young woman
said; they had been sold outright.

"Then any one can buy them?" Helen asked,
eagerly. "They are for sale to the public — to
any one?"

The young woman made note of the cus
tomer's eagerness, but with an unmoved coun
tenance.

"Yes, miss, they are for sale. The ring is
four pounds and the watch twenty-five."

"Twenty-nine pounds !" Helen gasped.

That was more money than she had in the
world, but the fact did not distress her, for she
had a true artistic disregard for ready money,
and the absence of it had never disturbed her.
But now it assumed a sudden and alarming

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

value. She had ten pounds in her purse and
ten pounds at her studio — these were just enough
to pay for a quarter's rent and the rates, and
there was a hat and cloak in Bond Street which
she certainly must have. Her only assets con
sisted of the possibility that some one might soon
order a miniature, and to her mind that was
sufficient. Some one always had ordered a min
iature, and there was no reasonable doubt but
that some one would do it again. For a moment
she questioned if it would not be sufficient if
she bought the ring and allowed the watch to
remain. But she recognized that the ring
meant more to her than the watch, while the lat
ter, as an old heirloom which had been passed
down to him from a great-grandfather, meant
more to Philip. It was for Philip she was
doing this, she reminded herself. She stood
holding his possessions, one in each hand, and
looking at the young woman blankly. She had
no doubt in her mind that at least part of the
money he had received for them had paid for
the flowers he had sent to her in Scotland.
The certainty of this left her no choice. She
laid the ring and watch down and pulled the
only ring she possessed from her own finger.
It was a gift from Lady Gower. She had no
doubt that it was of great value.

"Can you lend me some money on that?'*

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

she asked. It was the first time she had con
ducted a business transaction of this nature,
and she felt as though she were engaging in a
burglary.

"We don't lend money, miss," the girl said,
"we buy outright. I can give you twenty-
eight shillings for this," she added.

" Twenty-eight shillings!" Helen gasped.
"Why, it is worth — oh, ever so much more
than that!"

"That is all it is worth to us," the girl an
swered. She regarded the ring indifferently and
laid it away from her on the counter. The
action was final.

Helen's hands rose slowly to her breast,
where a pretty watch dangled from a bow-
knot of crushed diamonds. It was her only
possession, and she was very fond of it. It
also was the gift of one of the several great
ladies who had adopted her since her residence
in London. Helen had painted a miniature of
this particular great lady which had looked so
beautiful that the pleasure which the original
of the portrait derived from the thought that
she still really looked as she did in the minia
ture was worth more to her than many diamonds.

But it was different with Helen, and no one
could count what it cost her to tear away her
one proud possession.

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"What will you give me for this?" she asked,
defiantly.

The girl's eyes showed greater interest. "I
can give you twenty pounds for that," she said.

"Take it, please," Helen begged, as though
she feared if she kept it a moment longer she
might not be able to make the sacrifice.

"That will be enough now," she went on,
taking out her ten-pound note. She put Lady
Gower's ring back upon her finger and picked
up Philip's ring and watch with the pleasure
of one who has come into a great fortune. She
turned back at the door.

"Oh," she stammered, "in case any one should
inquire, you are not to say who bought these."

"No, miss, certainly not," said the woman.
Helen gave the direction to the cabman and,
closing the doors of the hansom, sat looking
down at the watch and the ring, as they lay in
her lap. The thought that they had been his
most valued possessions, which he had aban
doned forever, and that they were now entirely
hers, to do with as she liked, filled her with
most intense delight and pleasure. She took
up the heavy gold ring and , placed it on the
little finger of her left hand; it was much too
large, and she removed it and balanced it for a
moment doubtfully in the palm of her right
hand. She was smiling, and her face was lit

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with shy and tender thoughts. She cast a quick
glance to the left and right as though fearful
that people passing in the street would observe
her, and then slipped the ring over the fourth
finger of her left hand. She gazed at it with a
guilty smile, and then, covering it hastily with
her other hand, leaned back, clasping it closely,
and sat frowning far out before her with puzzled
eyes.

To Carroll all roads led past Helen's studio,
and during the summer, while she had been
absent in Scotland, it was one of his sad plea
sures to make a pilgrimage to her street and to
pause opposite the house and look up at the
empty windows of her rooms. It was during
this daily exercise that he learned, through the
arrival of her luggage, of her return to London,
and when day followed day without her having
shown any desire to see him or to tell him of
her return, he denounced himself most bitterly
as a fatuous fool.

At the end of the week he sat down and con
sidered his case quite calmly. For three years
he had loved this girl, deeply and tenderly.
He had been lover, brother, friend, and guardian.
During that time, even though she had accepted
him in every capacity except as that of the
prospective husband, she had never given him
any real affection, nor sympathy, nor help; all

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she had done for him had been done without
her knowledge or intent. To know her, to love
her, and to scheme to give her pleasure had
been its own reward, and the only one. For
the last few months he had been living like a
crossing sweeper in order to be able to stay in
London until she came back to it, and that he
might still send her the gifts he had always laid
on her altar. He had not seen her in three
months. Three months that had been to him
a blank, except for his work — which, like all
else that he did, was inspired and carried on
for her. Now at last she had returned and had
shown that, even as a friend, he was of so little
account in her thoughts, of so little consequence
in her life, that after this long absence she had
no desire to learn of his welfare or to see him
— she did not even give him the chance to see
her. And so, placing these facts before him
for the first time since he had loved her, he
considered what was due to himself. "Was it
good enough?" he asked. "Was it just that
he should continue to wear out his soul and
body for this girl who did not want what
he had to give, who treated him less con
siderately than a man whom she met for the
first time at dinner?" He felt he had reached
the breaking-point; that the time had come
when he must consider what he owed to himself.

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There could never be any other woman save
Helen; but as it was not to be Helen, he could
no longer, with self-respect, continue to proffer
his love only to see it slighted and neglected.
He was humble enough concerning himself, but
of his love he was very proud. Other men
could give her more in wealth or position, but
no one could ever love her as he did. " He that
hath more let him give," he had often quoted
to her defiantly, as though he were challenging
the world, and now he felt he must evolve a
makeshift world of his own — a world in which
she was not his only spring of acts; he must
begin all over again and keep his love secret
and sacred until she understood it and wanted
it. And if she should never want it he would
at least have saved it from many rebuffs and
insults.

With this determination strong in him, the
note Helen had left for him after her talk with
Marion, and the flowers, and the note with
them, saying she was coming to take tea on the
morrow, failed to move him except to make
him more bitter. He saw in them only a tardy
recognition of her neglect — an effort to make
up to him for thoughtlessness which, from her,
hurt him worse than studied slight.

A new regime had begun, and he was deter
mined to establish it firmly and to make it

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impossible for himself to retreat from it; and
in the note in which he thanked Helen for the
flowers and welcomed her to tea, he declared
his ultimatum.

"You know how terribly I feel," he wrote;
"I don't have to tell you that, but I cannot
always go on dragging out my love and holding
it up to excite your pity as beggars show their
sores. I cannot always go on praying before
your altar, cutting myself with knives and
calling upon you to listen to me. You know
that there is no one else but you, and that there
never can be any one but you, and that nothing
is changed except that after this I am not
going to urge and torment you. I shall wait
as I have always waited — only now I shall
wait in silence. You know just how little, in
one way, I have to offer you, and you know
just how much I have in love to offer you. It
is now for you to speak — some day, or v never.
But you will have to speak first. You will
never hear a word of love from me again. Why j
should you? You know it is always waiting for
you. But if you should ever want it, you must
come to me, and take off your hat and put it on
my table and say, ' Philip, I have come to stay/
Whether you can ever do that or not can make
no difference in my love for you. I shall love
you always, as no man has ever loved a woman

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

in this world, but it is you who must speak first;
for me, the rest is silence."

The following morning as Helen was leaving
the house she found this letter lying on the hall-
table, and ran back with it to her rooms. A
week before she would have let it lie on the
table and read it on her return. She was con
scious that this was what she would have done,
and it pleased her to find that what concerned
Philip was now to her the thing of greatest
interest. She was pleased with her own eager
ness — her own happiness was a welcome sign,
and she was proud and glad that she was
learning to care.

She read the letter with an anxious pride and
pleasure in each word that was entirely new.
Philip's recriminations did not hurt her, they
were the sign that he cared; nor did his deter
mination not to speak of his love to her hurt
her, for she believed him when he said that he
would always care. She read the letter twice,
and then sat for some time considering the kind
of letter Philip would have written had he
known her secret — had he known that the ring
he had abandoned was now upon her finger.

She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the
letter in a drawer, and then took it out again
and reread the last page. When she had fin
ished it she was smiling. For a moment she

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stood irresolute, and then, moving slowly toward
the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her
and, raising her hands, lifted her veil and half
withdrew the pins that fastened her hat.

"Philip," she began, in a frightened whisper,
"I have — I have come to "

The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and
she rushed across the room as though she were
running from herself. She was blushing vio
lently.

"Never!" she cried, as she pulled open the
door; "I could never do it — never!"

The following afternoon, when Helen was to
come to tea, Carroll decided that he would re
ceive her with all the old friendliness, but that
he must be careful to subdue all emotion.

He was really deeply hurt at her treatment,
and had it not been that she came on her own
invitation he would not of his own accord have
sought to see her. In consequence, he rather
welcomed than otherwise the arrival of Marion
Cavendish, who came a half-hour before Helen
was expected, and who followed a hasty knock
with a precipitate entrance.

"Sit down," she commanded, breathlessly,
"and listen. I've been at rehearsal all day, or
I'd have been here before you were awake."
She seated herself nervously and nodded her head
at Carroll in an excited and mysterious manner.

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

"What is it?" he asked. "Have you and
Reggie "

"Listen," Marion repeated. "Our fortunes
are made; that is what's the matter — and I've
made them. If you took half the interest in
your work I do, you'd have made yours long
ago. Last night," she began, impressively, "I
went to a large supper at the Savoy, and I sat
next to Charley Wimpole. He came in late,
after everybody had finished, and I attacked
him while he was eating his supper. He said
he had been rehearsing 'Caste* after the per
formance; that they've put it on as a stop-gap
on account of the failure of 'The Triflers,' and
that he knew revivals were of no use; that he
would give any sum for a good modern comedy.
That was my cue, and I told him I knew of a
better comedy than any he had produced at his
theatre in five years, and that it was going beg
ging. He laughed, and asked where was he to
find this wonderful comedy, and I said, 'It's
been in your safe for the last two months and
you haven't read it.' He said, ' Indeed, how do
you know that?' and I said, 'Because if you'd
read it, it wouldn't be in your safe, but on your
stage.' So he asked me what the play was
about, and I told him the plot and what sort
of a part his was, and some of his scenes, and
he began to take notice. He forgot his supper,

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

and very soon he grew so interested that he
turned his chair round and kept eying my
supper-card to find out who I was, and at last
remembered seeing me in 'The New Boy' —
and a rotten part it was, too — but he remem
bered it, and he told me to go on and tell him
more about your play. So I recited it, bit by
bit, and he laughed in all the right places and
got very much excited, and said finally that he
would read it the first thing this morning."
Marion paused, breathlessly. "Oh, yes, and he
wrote your address on his cuff," she added,
with the air of delivering a complete and con
vincing climax.

Carroll stared at her and pulled excitedly on
his pipe.

"Oh, Marion!" he gasped, "suppose he
should? He won't, though," he added, but
eying her eagerly and inviting contradiction.

"He will," she answered, stoutly, "if he reads
it."

"The other managers read it," Carroll sug
gested, doubtfully.

"Yes, but what do they know?" Marion
returned, loftily. "He knows. Charles Wim-
pole is the only intelligent actor-manager in
London."

There was a sharp knock at the door, which
Marion in her excitement had left ajar, and

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Prentiss threw it wide open with an impressive
sweep, as though he were announcing royalty.
"Mr. Charles Wimpole," he said.

The actor- manager stopped in the doorway
bowing gracefully, his hat held before him and
his hand on his stick as though it were resting
on a foil. He had the face and carriage of a
gallant of the days of Congreve, and he wore
his modern frock-coat with as much distinction
as if it were of silk and lace. He was evidently
amused. "I couldn't help overhearing the last
line," he said, smiling. "It gives me a good

entrance."

Marion gazed at him blankly. "Oh," she
gasped, "we — we — were just talking about
you."

"If you hadn't mentioned my name," the
actor said, "I should never have guessed it.
And this is Mr. Carroll, I hope."

The great man was rather pleased with the
situation. As he read it, it struck him as
possessing strong dramatic possibilities: Car
roll was the struggling author on the verge of
starvation; Marion, his sweetheart, flying to
him gave him hope; and he was the good fairy
arriving in the nick of time to set everything
right and to make the young people happy and
prosperous. He rather fancied himself in the
part of the good fairy, and as he seated himself

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he bowed to them both Jn a manner which was
charmingly inclusive and confidential.

"Miss Cavendish, I imagine, has already
warned you that you might expect a visit from
me," he said, tentatively. Carroll nodded.-
He was too much concerned to interrupt.

"Then I need only tell you/' Wimpole con
tinued, "that I got up at an absurd hour this
morning to read your play; that I did read it;
that I like it immensely — and that if we can
come to terms I shall produce it. I shall
produce it at once, within a fortnight or three
weeks."

Carroll was staring at him intently and con
tinued doing so after Wimpole had finished
speaking. The actor felt he had somehow
missed his point, or that Carroll could not have
understood him, and repeated, "I say I shall
put it in rehearsal at once."

Carroll rose abruptly, and pushed back his
chair. "I should be very glad," he murmured,
and strode over to the window, where he stood
with his back turned to his guests. Wimpole
looked after him with a kindly smile and nodded
his head appreciatively. He had produced
even a greater effect than his lines seemed to
warrant. When he spoke again, it was quite
simply, and sincerely, and though he spoke for
Carroll's benefit, he addressed himself to Marion.

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:<You were quite right last night," he said;
"it is a most charming piece of work. I am
really extremely grateful to you for bringing
it to my notice." He rose, and going to Car
roll, put his hand on his shoulder. "My boy,"
he said, "I congratulate you. I should like
to be your age, and to have written that play.
Come to my theatre to-morrow and we will
talk terms. Talk it over first with your friends,
so that I shan't rob you. Do you think you
would prefer a lump sum now, and so be done
with it altogether, or trust that the royalties
may "

" Royalties," prompted Marion, in an eager
aside.

The men laughed. "Quite right," Wimpole
assented, good-humoredly; "it's a poor sports
man who doesn't back his own horse. Well,
then, until to-morrow."

"But," Carroll began, "one moment, please.
I haven't thanked you."

"My dear boy," cried Wimpole, waving him
away with his stick, "it is I who have to thank
you."

"And — and there is a condition," Carroll
said, "which goes with the play. It is that Miss
Cavendish is to have the part of Nancy."

Wimpole looked serious and considered for a
moment.

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

"Nancy," he said, "the girl who interferes —
a very good part. I have cast Miss Maddox
for it in my mind, but, of course, if the author
insists "

Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped
her hands appealingly before her.

"Oh, Mr. Wimpole!" she cried, "you owe me
that, at least."

Carroll leaned over and took both of Marion's
hands in one of his.

"It's all right," he said; "the author insists."

Wimpole waved his stick again as though it
were the magic wand of the good fairy.

"You shall have it," he said. "I recall your
performance in 'The New Boy' with pleasure.
I take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be
cast for Nancy. We shall begin rehearsals at
once. I hope you are a quick study."

"I'm letter-perfect now," laughed Marion.

Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to
them. They were both so young, so eager, and
so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out
of it. "Good-by, then," he said.

"Good-by, sir," they both chorused. And
Marion cried after him, "And thank you a
thousand times."

He turned again and looked back at them,
but in their rejoicing they had already forgotten
him. "Bless you, my children," he said, smil-

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ing. As he was about to close the door a young
girl came down the passage toward it, and as
she was apparently going to Carroll's rooms,
the actor left the door open behind him.

Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his
final exit. They were both gazing at each
other as though, could they find speech, they
would ask if it were true.

" It's come at last, Marion," Philip said, with
an uncertain voice.

"I could weep," cried Marion. "Philip," she
exclaimed, " I would rather see that play succeed
than any play ever written, and I would rather
play that part in it than— Oh, Philip," she
ended, "I'm so proud of you!" and rising, she
threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on
his shoulder.

Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed
the tips of her fingers gently. "I owe it to
you, Marion," he said— "all to you."

This was the tableau that was presented
through the open door to Miss Helen Cabot,
hurrying on her errand of restitution and good
will, and with Philip's ring and watch clasped
in her hand. They had not heard her, nor did
they see her at the door, so she drew back
quickly and ran along the passage and down
the stairs into the street.

She did not need now to analyze her feelings.

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

They were only too evident. For she could
translate what she had just seen as meaning
only one thing — that she had considered Philip's
love so lightly that she had not felt it passing
away from her until her neglect had killed it —
until it was too late. And now that it was too
late she felt that without it her life could not
go on. She tried to assure herself that only
the fact that she had lost it made it seem in
valuable, but this thought did not comfort her
• — she was not deceived by it, she knew that at
last she cared for him deeply and entirely. In
her distress she blamed herself bitterly, but she
also blamed Philip no less bitterly for having
failed to wait for her. "He might have known
that I must love him in time," she repeated to
herself again and again. She was so unhappy
that her letter congratulating Philip on his
good fortune in having his comedy accepted
seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as his
success meant for him only what it meant to
her, he was hurt and grievously disappointed.

He accordingly turned the more readily to
Marion, whose interest and enthusiasm at the
rehearsals of the piece seemed in contrast most
friendly and unselfish. He could not help but
compare the attitude of the two girls at this
time, when the failure or success of his best
work was still undecided. He felt that as Helen

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

took so little interest in his success he could not
dare to trouble her with his anxieties concerning
it, and she attributed his silence to his preoccu
pation and interest in Marion. So the two
grew apart, each misunderstanding the other
and each troubled in spirit at the other's in
difference.

The first night of the play justified all that
Marion and Wimpole had claimed for it, and
was a great personal triumph for the new play
wright. The audience was the typical first-
night audience of the class which Charles
Wimpole always commanded. It was brilliant,
intelligent, and smart, and it came prepared to
be pleased.

From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen
and Lady Gower watched the successful prog
ress of the play with an anxiety almost as keen
as that of the author. To Helen it seemed as
though the giving of these lines to the public —
these lines which he had so often read to her,
'and altered to her liking — was a desecration.
It seemed as though she were losing him indeed
— as though he now belonged to these strange
people, all of whom were laughing and ap
plauding his words, from the German Princess
in the Royal box to the straight-backed Tommy
in the pit. Instead of the painted scene before
her, she saw the birch-trees by the river at

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

home, where he had first read her the speech to
which they were now listening so intensely —
the speech in which the hero tells the girl he
loves her. She remembered that at the time she
had thought how wonderful it would be if some
day some one made such a speech to her — not
Philip, but a man she loved. And now? If
Philip would only make that speech to her now !

He came out at last, with Wimpole leading
him, and bowed across a glaring barrier of
lights at a misty but vociferous audience that
was shouting the generous English bravo ! and
standing up to applaud. He raised his eyes to
the box where Helen sat, and saw her staring
down at the tumult, with her hands clasped
under her chin. Her face was colorless, but
lit with the excitement of the moment; and he
saw that she was crying.

Lady Gower, from behind her, was clapping
her hands delightedly.

"But, my dear Helen," she remonstrated,
breathlessly, "you never told me he was so
good-looking."

"Yes," said Helen, rising abruptly, "he is —
very good-looking."

She crossed the box to where her cloak was
hanging, but instead of taking it down, buried
her face in its folds.

"My dear child!" cried Lady Gower, in dis-
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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

may. "What is it? The excitement has been
too much for you."

"No, I am just happy," sobbed Helen. "I
am just happy for him."

"We will go and tell him so, then," said
Lady Gower. "I am sure he would like to
hear it from you to-night."

Philip was standing in the centre of the stage,
surrounded by many pretty ladies and elderly
men. Wimpole was hovering over him as
though he had claims upon him by the right of
discovery.

But when Philip saw Helen, he pushed his
way toward her eagerly and took her hand in
both of his.

"I am so glad, Phil," she said. She felt it
all so deeply that she was afraid to say more,
but that meant so much to her that she was
sure he would understand.

He had planned it very differently. For a
year he had dreamed that, on the first night of
his play, there would be a supper, and that he
would rise and drink her health, and tell his
friends and the world that she was the woman
he loved, and that she had agreed to marry
him, and that at last he was able, through the
success of his play, to make her his wife.

And now they met in a crowd to shake hands,
and she went her way with one of her grand

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

ladies, and he was left among a group of chat
tering strangers. The great English playwright
took him by the hand and in the hearing of all
praised him gracefully and kindly. It did not
matter to Philip whether the older playwright
believed what he said or not; he knew it was
generously meant.

" I envy you this," the great man was saying.
" Don't lose any of it, stay and listen to all
they have to say. You will never live through
the first night of your first play but once."

"Yes, I hear them," said Philip, nervously;
"they are all too kind. But I don't hear the
voice I have been listening for," he added, in a
whisper. The older man pressed his hand
again quickly. "My dear boy," he said, "I
am sorry."

"Thank you," Philip answered.

Within a week he had forgotten the great
man's fine words of praise, but the clasp of his
hand he cherished always.

Helen met Marion as she was leaving the
stage-door and stopped to congratulate her on
her success in the new part. Marion was
radiant. To Helen she seemed obstreperously
happy and jubilant.

"And, Marion," Helen began, bravely, "I
also want to congratulate you on something
else. You — you — neither of you have told me

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

yet/' she stammered, "but I am such an old
friend of both that I will not be kept out of
the secret." At these words Marion's air of
triumphant gayety vanished; she regarded
Helen's troubled eyes closely and kindly.

"What secret, Helen?" she asked.

"I came to the door of Philip's room the
other day when you did not know I was there,"
Helen answered, "and I could not help seeing
how matters were. And I do congratulate you
both — and wish you — oh, such happiness!"
Without a word Marion dragged her back down
the passage to her dressing-room, and closed
the door.

"Now tell me what you mean," she said.

"I am sorry if I discovered anything you
didn't want known yet," said Helen, "but the
door was open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you
and had not shut it, and I could not help
seeing."

Marion interrupted her with an eager ex
clamation of enlightenment.

"Oh, you were there, then," she cried. "And
you?" she asked, eagerly — "you thought Phil
cared for me — that we are engaged, and it hurt
you; you are sorry? Tell me," she demanded,
"are you sorry?"

Helen drew back and stretched out her hand
toward the door.

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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

"How can you!" she exclaimed, indignantly.
"You have no right."

Marion stood between her and the door.

"I have, every right," she said, "to help my
friends, and I want to help you and Philip.
And, indeed, I do hope you are sorry. I hope
you are miserable. And I'm glad you saw me
kiss him. That was the first and the last
time, and I did it because I was happy and
glad for him; and because I love him, too, but
not in the least in the way he loves you. No
one ever loved any one as he loves you. And
it's time you found it out. And if I have
helped to make you find it out, I'm glad, and
I don't care how much I hurt you."

"Marion!" exclaimed Helen, "what does it
mean? Do you mean that you are not engaged;
that-

" Certainly not," Marion answered. "I am
going to marry Reggie. It is you that Philip
loves, and I am very sorry for you that you
don't love him."

Helen clasped Marion's hands in both of
hers.

"But, Marion!" she cried, "I do, oh, I
do!"

There was a thick yellow fog the next morn
ing, and with it rain and a sticky, depressing

200

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

dampness which crept through the window-
panes, and which neither a fire nor blazing gas-
jets could overcome.

Philip stood in front of the fireplace with the
morning papers piled high on the centre-table
and scattered over the room about him.

He had read them all, and he knew now what
it was to wake up famous, but he could not
taste it. Now that it had come it meant
nothing, and that it was so complete a triumph
only made it the harder. In his most optimistic
dreams he had never imagined success so satis
fying as the reality had proved to be; but in
his dreams Helen had always held the chief
part, and without her, success seemed only to
mock him.

He wanted to lay it all before her, to say,
"If you are pleased, I am happy. If you are
satisfied, then I am content. It was done for
you, and I am wholly yours, and all that I do
is yours." And, as though in answer to his
thoughts, there was an instant knock at the
door, and Helen entered the room and stood
smiling at him across the table.

Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke
with many emotions, and her cheeks were
brilliant with color. He had never seen her
look more beautiful.

"Why, Helen!" he exclaimed, "how good of
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THE LION AND THE UNICORN

you to come. Is there anything wrong? Is
anything the matter?"

She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled
at him appealingly.

"What is it?" he asked in great concern.

Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at
the same moment motioned him away — and he
stepped back and stood watching her in much
perplexity.

With her eyes fixed on his she raised her
hands to her head, and her fingers fumbled with
the knot of her veil. She pulled it loose, and
then, with a sudden courage, lifted her hat
proudly, as though it were a coronet, and
placed it between them on his table.

"Philip," she stammered, with the tears in
her voice and eyes, "if you will let me — I have
come to stay."

The table was no longer between them. He
caught her in his arms and kissed her face and
her uncovered head again and again. From
outside the rain beat drearily and the fog
rolled through the street, but inside before the
fire the two young people sat close together,
asking eager questions or sitting in silence,
staring at the flames with wondering, happy
eyes.

The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only
once again. It was a month later when they

202

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

stopped in front of the shop in a four-wheeler,
with their baggage mixed on top of it, and
steamer-labels pasted over every trunk.

"And, oh, Prentiss!" Carroll called from
the cab- window. "I came near forgetting.
I promised to gild the Lion and the Unicorn if
I won out in London. So have it done, please,
and send the bill to me. For I've won out all
right." And then he shut the door of the cab,
and they drove away forever.

"Nice gal, that," growled the Lion. "I
always liked her. I am glad they've settled it
at last."

The Unicorn sighed sentimentally. wThe
other one's worth two of her," he said.

203

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

A SKETCH CONTAINING THREE POINTS OF VIEW

What the Poet Laureate wrote.

"THERE are girls in the Gold Reef City,

There are mothers and children too !
And they cry ' Hurry up for pity ! '
So what can a brave man do?

" I suppose we were wrong, were mad men,

Still I think at the Judgment Day,
When God sifts the good from the bad men,
There'll be something more to say."

What more the Lord Chief Justice Jound to
say.

"In this case we know the immediate con
sequence of your crime. It has been the loss
of human life, it has been the disturbance of
public peace, it has been the creation of a
certain sense of distrust of public professions
and of public faith. . . . The sentence of this
Court therefore is that, as to you, Leander
Starr Jameson, you be confined for a period

204

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

of fifteen months without hard labor; that
you, Sir John Willoughby, have ten months5
imprisonment; and that you, etc., etc."

London Times, July 2gtb.

What the Hon. "Reggie" Blake thought about it.

"H. M. HOLLOWAY PRISON,
"July 28th.

"I am going to keep a diary while I am in
prison, that is, if they will let me. I never
kept one before because I hadn't the time;
when I was home on leave there was too much
going on to bother about it, and when I was up
country I always came back after a day's
riding so tired that I was too sleepy to write
anything. And now that I have the time, I
won't have anything to write about. I fancy
that more things happened to me to-day than
are likely to happen again for the next eight
months, so I will make this day take up as
much room in the diary as it can. I am writing
this on the back of the paper the Warder uses
for his official reports, while he is hunting up
cells to put us in. We came down on him
rather unexpectedly and he is nervous.

"Of course, I had prepared myself for this
after a fashion, but now I see that somehow I
never really did think I would be in here, and

205

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

all my friends outside, and everything going
on just the same as though I wasn't alive
somewhere. It's like telling yourself that your
horse can't possibly pull off a race, so that you
won't mind so much if he doesn't, but you
always feel just as bad when he comes in a
loser. A man can't fool himself into thinking
one way when he is hoping the other.

"But I am glad it is over, and settled. It
was a great bore not knowing your luck and
having the thing hanging over your head
every morning when you woke up. Indeed it
it was quite a relief when the counsel got all
through arguing over those proclamations, and
the Chief Justice summed up, but I nearly
went to sleep when I found he was going all
over it again to the jury. I didn't understand
about those proclamations myself and I'll lay
a fiver the jury didn't either. The Colonel
said he didn't. I couldn't keep my mind on
what Russell was explaining about, and I got
to thinking how much old Justice Hawkins
looked like the counsel in 'Alice in Wonderland'
when they tried the knave of spades for stealing
the tarts. He has just the same sort of a beak
and the same sort of a wig, and I wondered
why he had his wig powdered and the others
didn't. Pollock's wig had a hole in the top;
you could see it when he bent over to take

206

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

notes. He was always taking notes. I don't
believe he understood about those proclama
tions either; he never seemed to listen, anyway.

"The Chief Justice certainly didn't love us
very much, that's sure; and he wasn't going
to let anybody else love us either. I felt
quite the Christian Martyr when Sir Edward
was speaking in defense. He made it sound
as though we were all a lot of Adelphi heroes
and ought to be promoted and have medals,
but when Lord Russell started in to read the
Riot Act at us I began to believe that hanging
was too good for me. I'm sure I never knew
I was disturbing the peace of nations; it seems
like such a large order for a subaltern.

"But the worst was when they made us
stand up before all those people to be sen
tenced. I must say I felt shaky about the
knees then, not because I was afraid of what
was coming, but because it was the first time
I had ever been pointed out before people, and
made to feel ashamed. And having those
girls there, too, looking at one. That wasn't
just fair to us. It made me feel about ten
years old, and I remembered how the Head
Master used to call me to his desk and say,
'Blake Senior, two pages of Horace and keep
in bounds for a week.' And then I heard our
names and the months, and my name and

207

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

* eight months* imprisonment/ and there was a
bustle and murmur and the tipstaves cried,
'Order in the Court/ and the Judges stood up
and shook out their big red skirts as though
they were shaking off the contamination of our
presence and rustled away, and I sat down,
wondering how long eight months was, and
» wishing they'd given me as much as they gave
Jameson.

"They put us in a room together then, and
our counsel said how sorry they were, and
shook hands, and went off to dinner and left
us. I thought they might have waited with us
and been a little late for dinner just that once;
but no one waited except a lot of costers putside
whom we did not know. It was eight o'clock
and still quite light when we came out, and
there was a line of four-wheelers and a hansom
ready for us. I'd been hoping they would
take us out by the Strand entrance, just be
cause I'd liked to have seen it again, but they
marched us instead through the main quad
rangle — a beastly, gloomy courtyard that ech
oed, and out, into Carey Street — such a dirty,
gloomy street. The costers and clerks set up
a sort of a cheer when we came out, and one of
them cried, 'God bless you, sir/ to the doctor,
but I was sorry they cheered. It seemed like
kicking against the umpire's decision. The

208

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

Colonel and I got into a hansom together and
we trotted off into Chancery Lane and turned
into Holborn. Most of the shops were closed,
and the streets looked empty, but there was a
lighted clock-face over Mooney's public house,
and the hands stood at a quarter past eight.
I didn't know where HoIIoway was, and was
hoping they would have to take us through
some decent streets to reach it; but we didn't
see a part of the city that meant anything to
me, or that I would choose to travel through
again.

"Neither of us talked, and I imagined that
the people in the streets knew we were going
to prison, and I kept my eyes on the enamel
card on the back of the apron. I suppose I
read, 'Two- wheeled hackney carriage: if hired
and discharged within the four- mile limit, is.'
at least a hundred times. I got more sensible
after a bit, and when we had turned into Gray's
Inn Road I looked up and saw a tram in front
of us with 'HoIIoway Road and King's X,'
painted on the steps, and the Colonel saw it
about the same time I fancy, for we each
looked at the other, and the Colonel raised his
eyebrows. It showed us that at least the cab
man knew where we were going.

'They might have taken us for a turn
through the West End first, I think,' the Colonel

209

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

said. 'I'd like to have had a look around,
wouldn't you? This isn't a cheerful neighbor
hood, is it?'

" There were a lot of children playing in St.
Andrew's Gardens, and a crowd of them ran
out just as we passed, shrieking and laughing
over nothing, the way kiddies do, and that was
about the only pleasant sight in the ride. I
had quite a turn when we came to the New
Hospital just beyond, for I thought it was Hol-
loway, and it came over me what eight months
in such a place meant. I believe if I hadn't
pulled myself up sharp, I'd have jumped out
into the street and run away. It didn't last
more than a few seconds, but I don't want any
more like them. I was afraid, afraid — there's
no use pretending it was anything else. I was
in a dumb, silly funk, and I turned sick inside
and shook, as I have seen a horse shake when
he shies at nothing and sweats and trembles
down his sides.

"During those few seconds it seemed to
be more than I could stand; I felt sure that
I couldn't do it — that I'd go mad if they tried
to force me. The idea was so terrible — of not
being master over your own legs and arms, to
have your flesh and blood and what brains God
gave you buried alive in stone walls as though
they were in a safe with a time-lock on the

210

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

door set for eight months ahead. There's
nothing to be afraid of in a stone wall really,
but it's the idea of the thing — of not being
free to move about, especially to a chap that
has always lived in the open as I have, and has
had men under him. It was no wonder I was
in a funk for a minute. I'll bet a fiver the
others were, too, if they'll only own up to it.
I don't mean for long, but just when the idea
first laid hold of them. Anyway, it was a good
lesson to me, and if I catch myself thinking
of it again I'll whistle, or talk to myself out
loud and think of something cheerful. And I
don't mean to be one of those chaps who spends
his time in jail counting the stones in his cell,
or training spiders, or measuring how many of
his steps make a mile, for madness lies that
way. I mean to sit tight and think of all the
good times I've had, and go over them in my
mind very slowly, so as to make them last
longer and remember who was there and what
we said, and the jokes and all that; I'll go over
house-parties I have been on, and the times
I've had in the Riviera, and scouting-parties
Dr. Jim led up country when we were taking
Matabele Land.

" They say that if you're good here they
give you things to read after a month or two,
and then I can read up all those instructive

211

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

books that a fellow never does read until he's
laid up in bed.

"But that's crowding ahead a bit; I must
keep to what happened to-day. We struck
York Road at the back of the Great Western
Terminus, and I half hoped we might see some
chap we knew coming or going away: I would
like to have waved my hand to him. It would
have been fun to have seen his surprise the next
morning when he read in the paper that he had
been bowing to jail-birds, and then I would
like to have cheated the tipstaves out of just
one more friendly good-by. I wanted to say
good-by to somebody, but I really couldn't
feel sorry to see the last of any one of those we
passed in the streets — they were such a dirty,
unhappy-looking lot, and the railroad wall ran
on forever apparently, and we might have
been in a foreign country for all we knew of it.
There were just sooty gray brick tenements
and gas-works on one side, and the railroad
cutting on the other, and semaphores and
telegraph wires overhead, and smoke and grime
everywhere, it looked exactly like the sort of
street that should lead to a prison, and it
seemed a pity to take a smart hansom and a
good cob into it.

"It was just a bit different from our last
ride together — when we rode through the night

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THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

from Krugers-Dorp with hundreds of horses'
hoofs pounding on the soft veldt behind us, and
the carbines clanking against the stirrups as
they swung on the sling belts. We were being
hunted then, harassed on either side, scurrying
for our lives like the Derby Dog in a race-track
when every one hoots him and no man steps
out to help — we were sick for sleep, sick for
food, lashed by the rain, and we knew that we
were beaten; but we were free still, and under
open skies with the derricks of the Rand rising
like gallows on our left, and Johannesburg
only fifteen miles away."

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

A YOUNG man runs two chances of marrying
the wrong woman. He marries her because
she is beautiful, and because he persuades
himself that every other lovable attribute must
be associated with such beauty, or because she
is in love with him. If this latter is the case,
she gives certain values to what he thinks and
to what he says which no other woman gives,
and so he observes to himself, "This is the
woman who best understands me."

You can reverse this and say that young
women run the same risks, but as men are sel
dom beautiful, the first danger is eliminated.
Women still marry men, however, because
they are loved by them, and in time the woman
grows to depend upon this love and to need it,
and is not content without it, and so she con
sents to marry the man for no other reason
than because he cares for her. For if a dog,
even, runs up to you wagging his tail and
acting as though he were glad to see you, you
pat him on the head and say, "What a nice
dog." You like him because he likes you, and

214

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

not because he belongs to a fine breed of animal
and could take blue ribbons at bench shows.

This is the story of a young man who was in
love with a beautiful woman, and who allowed
her beauty to compensate him for many other
things. When she failed to understand what
he said to her he smiled and looked at her
and forgave her at once, and when she began
to grow uninteresting, he would take up his
hat and go away, and so he never knew how
very uninteresting she might possibly be if she
were given time enough in which to demonstrate
the fact. He never considered that, were he
married to her, he could not take up his hat
and go away when she became uninteresting,
and that her remarks, which were not brilliant,
could not be smiled away either. They would
rise up and greet him every morning, and would
be the last thing he would hear at night.

Miss Delamar's beauty was so conspicuous
that to pretend not to notice it was more
foolish than well-bred. You got along more
easily and simply by accepting it at once, and
referring to it, and enjoying its effect upon
other people. To go out of one's way to talk
of other things when every one, even Miss
Delamar herself, knew what must be uppermost
in your mind, always seemed as absurd as to
strain a point in politeness, and to pretend not

215

MISS DELAWARE UNDERSTUDY

to notice that a guest had upset his claret, or
any other embarrassing fact. For Miss Dela-
mar's beauty was so distinctly embarrassing
that this was the only way to meet it — to smile
and pass it over and to try, if possible, to get
on to something else. It was on account of
this extraordinary quality in her appearance
that every one considered her beauty as some
thing which transcended her private ownership,
and which belonged by right to the polite
world at large, to any one who could appreciate
it properly, just as though it were a sunset or
a great work of art or of nature. And so,
when she gave away her photographs no one
thought it meant anything more serious than a
recognition on her part of the fact that it
would have been unkind and selfish in her not
to have shared the enjoyment of so much love
liness with others.

Consequently, when she sent one of her
largest and most aggravatingly beautiful photo
graphs to young Stuart, it was no sign that she
cared especially for him.

How much young Stuart cared for Miss
Delamar, however, was an open question and a
condition yet to be discovered. That he cared
for some one, and cared so much that his imagi
nation had begun to picture the awful joys and
responsibilities of marriage, was only too well

216

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

known to himself, and was a state of mind
already suspected by his friends.

Stuart was a member of the New York bar,
and the distinguished law firm to which he
belonged was very proud of its junior member,
and treated him with indulgence and affection,
which was not unmixed with amusement. For
Stuart's legal knowledge had been gathered in
many odd corners of the globe, and was various
and peculiar. It had been his pleasure to
study the laws by which men ruled other men
in every condition of life, and under every sun.
The regulations of a new mining camp were
fraught with as great interest to him as the
accumulated precedents of the English Con
stitution, and- he had investigated the rulings
of the mixed courts of Egypt and of the govern
ment of the little Dutch republic near the Cape
with as keen an effort to comprehend as he
had shown in studying the laws of the American
colonies and of the Commonwealth of Massa
chusetts.

But he was not always serious, and it some
times happened that after he had arrived at
some queer little island where the native prince
and the English governor sat in judgment
together, his interest in the intricacies of their
laws would give way to the more absorbing
occupation of chasing wild boar or shooting at

217

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

tigers from the top of an elephant. And so he
was not only regarded as an authority on many
forms of government and of law, into which
no one else had ever taken the trouble to look,
but his books on big game were eagerly read
and his articles in the magazines were earnestly
discussed, whether they told of the divorce
laws of Dakota, and the legal rights of widows
in Cambodia, or the habits of the Mexican lion.

Stuart loved his work better than he knew,
but how well he loved Miss Delamar neither he
nor his friends could tell. She was the most
beautiful and lovely creature that he had ever
seen, and of that only was he certain.

Stuart was sitting in the club one day when
the conversation turned to matrimony. He
was among his own particular friends, the men
before whom he could speak seriously or fool
ishly without fear of being misunderstood or
of having what he said retold and spoiled in
the telling. There was Seldon, the actor, and
Rives, who painted pictures, and young Sloane,
who travelled for pleasure and adventure, and
Weimer, who stayed at home and wrote for the
reviews. They were all bachelors, and very
good friends, and jealously guarded their little
circle from the intrusion of either men or
women.

"Of course the chief objection to marriage,"
218

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

Stuart said — it was the very day in which the
picture had been sent to his rooms — "is the old
one that you can't tell anything about it until
you are committed to it forever. It is a very
silly thing to discuss even, because there is no
way of bringing it about, but there really should
be some sort of a preliminary trial. As the
man says in the play, 'You wouldn't buy a
watch without testing it first/ You don't
buy a hat even without putting it on, and
finding out whether it is becoming or not, or
whether your peculiar style of ugliness can
stand it. And yet men go gayly off and get
married, and make the most awful promises,
and alter their whole order of life, and risk the
happiness of some lovely creature on trust, as
it were, knowing absolutely nothing of the new
conditions and responsibilities of the life before
them. Even a river-pilot has to serve an
apprenticeship before he gets a license, and yet
we are allowed to take just as great risks, and
only because we want to take them. It's
awful, and it's all wrong."

"Well, I don't see what one is going to do
about it," commented young Sloane, lightly,
"except to get divorced. That road is always
open."

Sloane was starting the next morning for the
Somali Country, in Abyssinia, to shoot rhinoc-

219

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

eros, and his interest in matrimony was in con
sequence somewhat slight.

"It isn't the fear of the responsibilities that
keeps Stuart, nor any one of us back," said
Weimer, contemptuously. "It's because we're
selfish. That's the whole truth of the matter.
We love our work, or our pleasure, or to knock
about the world, better than we do any partic
ular woman. When one of us comes to love the
woman best, his conscience won't trouble him
long about the responsibilities of marrying
her."

"Not at all," said Stuart. "I am quite
sincere; I maintain that there should be a
preliminary stage. Of course there can't be,
and it's absurd to think of it, but it would save
a lot of unhappiness."

"Well," said Seldon, dryly, "when you've
invented a way to prevent marriage from being
a lottery, let me know, will you?" He stood
up and smiled nervously. "Any of you coming
to see us to-night?" he asked.

"That's so," exclaimed Weimer; "I forgot.
It's the first night of 'A Fool and His Money/
isn't it? Of course we're coming."

"I told them to put a box away for you in
case you wanted it," Seldon continued. "Don't
expect much. It's a silly piece, and I've a
silly part, and I'm very bad in it. You must

220

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

come around to supper, and tell me where I'm
bad in it, and we will talk it over. You're
coming, Stuart?"

"My dear old man," said Stuart, reproach
fully, "of course I am. I've had my seats for
the last three weeks. Do you suppose I could
miss hearing you mispronounce all the Hindo-
stanee I've taught you?"

"Well, good-night then," said the actor,
waving his hand to his friends as he moved
away. 'We, who are about to die, salute
you!'"

"Good luck to you," said Sloane, holding up
his glass. "To the Fool and His Money," he
laughed. He turned to the table again, and
sounded the bell for the waiter. "Now let's
send him a telegram and wish him success, and
all sign it," he said, "and don't you fellows
tell him that I wasn't in front to-night. I've
got to go to a dinner the Travellers' Club are
giving me." There was a protesting chorus of
remonstrance. "Oh, I don't like it any better
than you do," said Sloane, "but I'll get away
early and join you before the play's over. No
one in the Travellers' Club, you see, has ever
travelled farther from New York than London
or the Riviera, and so when a member starts
for Abyssinia they give him a dinner, and he
has to take himself very seriously indeed, and

221

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

cry with Seldon, ' I, who am about to die, salute
you!' If that man there was any use," he
added, interrupting himself and pointing with
his glass at Stuart, "he'd pack up his things to
night and come with me."

"Oh, don't urge him," remonstrated Weimer,
who had travelled all over the world in imagina
tion, with the aid of globes and maps, but
never had got any farther from home than
Montreal. "We can't spare Stuart. He has
to stop here and invent a preliminary marriage
state, so that if he finds he doesn't like a girl,
he can leave her before it is too late."

"You sail at seven, I believe, and from
Hobo ken, don't you?" asked Stuart, undis
turbed. "If you'll start at eleven from the
New York side, I think I'll go with you, but I
hate getting up early; and then you see — I
know what dangers lurk in Abyssinia, but who
could tell what might not happen to him in
Hoboken?"

When Stuart returned to his room, he found a
large package set upright in an armchair and
enveloped by many wrappings; but the hand
writing on the outside told him at once from
whom it came and what it might be, and he
pounced upon it eagerly and tore it from its
covers. The photograph was a very large one,
and the likeness to the original so admirable

222

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

that the face seemed to smile and radiate with
air the loveliness and beauty of Miss Delamar
herself. Stuart beamed upon it with genuine
surprise and pleasure, and exclaimed delightedly
to himself. There was a living quality about
the picture which made him almost speak to
it, and thank Miss Delamar through it for
the pleasure she had given him and the honor
she had bestowed. He was proud, flattered,
and triumphant, and while he walked about
the room deciding where he would place it, and
holding the picture respectfully before him, he
smiled upon it with grateful satisfaction.

He decided against his dressing-table as being
too intimate a place for it, and so carried the
picture on from his bedroom to the dining-
room beyond, where he set it among his silver
on the sideboard. But so little of his time was
spent in this room that he concluded he would
derive but little pleasure from it there, and so
bore it back again into his library, where there
were many other photographs and portraits,
and where to other eyes than his own it would
be less conspicuous.

He tried it first in one place and then in
another; but in each position the picture pre
dominated and asserted itself so markedly,
that Stuart gave up the idea of keeping it
inconspicuous, and placed it prominently over

223

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

the fireplace, where it reigned supreme above
every other object in the room. It was not
only the most conspicuous object there, but the
living quality which it possessed in so marked
a degree, and which was due to its naturalness
of pose and the excellence of the likeness, made
it permeate the place like a presence and with
the individuality of a real person. Stuart ob
served this effect with amused interest, and
noted also that the photographs of other women
had become commonplace in comparison like
lithographs in a shop-window, and that the
more masculine accessories of a bachelor's
apartment had grown suddenly aggressive and
out of keeping. The liquor-case and the racks
of arms and of barbarous weapons which he
had collected with such pride seemed to have
lost their former value and meaning, and he
instinctively began to gather up the mass of
books and maps and photographs and pipes
and gloves which lay scattered upon the table,
and to put them in their proper place, or to
shove them out of sight altogether. "If I'm
to live up to that picture," he thought, " I must
see that George keeps this room in better order
— and I must stop wandering round here in
my bath-robe."

His mind continued on the picture while he
was dressing, and he was so absorbed in it and

224

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

in analyzing the effect it had had upon him,
that his servant spoke twice before he heard him.

"No," he answered, "I shall not dine here
to-night." Dining at home was with him a
very simple affair, and a somewhat lonely one,
and he avoided it almost nightly by indulging
himself in a more expensive fashion.

But even as he spoke an idea came to Stuart
which made him reconsider his determination,
and which struck him as so amusing, that he
stopped pulling at his tie and smiled delightedly
at himself in the glass before him.

"Yes," he said, still smiling, "I will dine
here to-night. Get me anything in a hurry.
You need not wait now; go get the dinner up
as soon as possible."

The effect which the photograph of Miss
Delamar had upon him, and the transformation
it had accomplished in his room, had been as.
great as would have marked the presence there
of the girl herself. While considering this it
had come to Stuart, like a flash of inspiration,
that here was a way by which he could test the
responsibilities and conditions of married life
without compromising either himself or the
girl to whom he would suppose himself to be
married.

"I will put that picture at the head of the
table," he said, "and I will play that it is she

225

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

herself, her own beautiful, lovely self, and I
will talk to her and exchange views with her,
and make her answer me just as she would were
we actually married and settled." He looked
at his watch and found it was just seven o'clock.
"I will begin now," he said, "and I will keep
up the delusion until midnight. To-night is
the best time to try the experiment, because
the picture is new now, and its influence will
be all the more real. In a few weeks it may
have lost some of its freshness and reality and
will have become one of the fixtures in the

room."

Stuart decided that under these new condi
tions It would be more pleasant to dine at
Delmonico's, and he was on the point of asking
the Picture what she thought of it, when he
remembered that while it had been possible
for him to make a practise of dining at that
place as a bachelor, he could not now afford so
expensive a luxury, and he decided that he had
better economize in that particular and go
instead to one of the table d'hote restaurants in
the neighborhood. He regretted not having
thought of this sooner, for he did not care to
dine at a table d'hote in evening dress, as in some
places it rendered him conspicuous. So, sooner
than have this happen he decided to dine at
home, as he had originally intended when he

226 *

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

first thought of attempting this experiment,
and then conducted the Picture in to dinner
and placed her in an armchair facing him, with
the candles full upon the face.

"Now this is something like," he exclaimed,
joyously. "I can't imagine anything better
than this. Here we are all to ourselves with
no one to bother us, with no chaperon, or
chaperon's husband either, which is generally
worse. Why is it, my dear," he asked, gayly,
in a tone he considered affectionate and hus
bandly, "that the attractive chaperons are
always handicapped by such stupid husbands,
and vice versa?"

"If that is true," replied the Picture, or
replied Stuart, rather, for the Picture, " I cannot
be a very attractive chaperon." Stuart bowed
politely at this, and then considered the point
it had raised as to whether he had, in assuming
both characters, the right to pay himself com
pliments. He decided against himself in this
particular instance, but agreed that he was not
responsible for anything the Picture might say,
so long as he sincerely and fairly tried to make
it answer him as he thought the original would
do under like circumstances. From what he
knew of the original under other conditions, he
decided that he could give a very close imitation
of her point of view.

227

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

Stuart's interest in his dinner was so real that
he found himself neglecting his wife, and he had
to pull himself up to his duty with a sharp re
proof. After smiling back at her for a moment
or two until his servant had again left them
alone, he asked her to tell him what she had
been doing during the day.

"Oh, nothing very important," said the
Picture. "I went shopping in the morning
and "

Stuart stopped himself and considered this
last remark doubtfully. "Now, how do I
know she would go shopping?" he asked him
self. "People from Harlem and women who
like bargain-counters, and who eat chocolate
meringue for lunch, and then stop in at a con
tinuous performance, go shopping. It must be
the comic-paper sort of wives who go about
matching shades and buying hooks and eyes.
Yes, I must have made Miss Delamar's under
study misrepresent her. I beg your pardon,
my dear," he said aloud to the Picture. "You
did not go shopping this morning. You prob
ably went to a woman's luncheon somewhere.
Tell me about that."

"Oh, yes, I went to lunch with the Ant-
werps," said the Picture, "and they had that
Russian woman there who is getting up sub
scriptions for the Siberian prisoners. It's rather

228

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

fine of her, because it exiles her from Russia*
And she is a princess."

"That's nothing," Stuart interrupted;
"they're all princesses when you see them on
Broadway."

"I beg your pardon," said the Picture.

"It's of no consequence," said Stuart, apolo
getically, "it's a comic song. I forgot you
didn't like comic songs. Well — go on."

"Oh, then I went to a tea, and then I stopped
in to hear Madame Ruvier read a paper on the
Ethics of Ibsen, and she "

Stuart's voice had died away gradually, and
he caught himself wondering whether he had
told George to lay in a fresh supply of cigars.
"I beg your pardon," he said, briskly, "I was
listening, but I was just wondering whether I
had any cigars left. You were saying that you
had been at Madame Ruvier's, and "

"I am afraid that you were not interested,'*
said the Picture. "Never mind, it's my fault.
Sometimes I think I ought to do things of more
interest, so that I should have something to
talk to you about when you come home."

Stuart wondered at what hour he would
come home now that he was married. As a
bachelor he had been in the habit of stopping
on his way up-town from the law-office at the
club, or to take tea at the houses of the different

229

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

girls he liked. Of course he could not do that
now as a married man. He would instead have
to limit his calls to married women, as all the
other married men of his acquaintance did.
But at the moment he could not think of any
attractive married women who would like his
dropping in on them in such a familiar manner,
and the other sort did not as yet appeal to him.

He seated himself in front of the coal fire in
the library, with the Picture in a chair close
beside him, and as he puffed pleasantly on his
cigar he thought how well this suited him, and
how delightful it was to find content in so
simple and continuing a pleasure. He could
almost feel the pressure of his wife's hand as it
lay in his own, as they sat in silent sympathy
looking into the friendly glow of the fire.

There was a long, pleasant pause.

" They're giving Sloane a dinner to-night at
the 'Travellers','" Stuart said, at last, "in
honor of his going to Abyssinia."

Stuart pondered for some short time as to
what sort of a reply Miss Delamar's under
study ought to make to this innocent remark.
He recalled the fact that on numerous occasions
the original had shown not only a lack of knowl
edge of far-away places, but, what was more
trying, a lack of interest as well. For the
moment he could not see her robbed of her

230

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

pretty environment and tramping through undis
covered countries at his side. So the Picture's
reply, when it came, was strictly in keeping
with several remarks which Miss Delamar her
self had made to him in the past.

r'Yes," said the Picture, politely, "and where
is Abyssinia — in India, isn't it?"
. "No, not exactly," corrected Stuart, mildly;
"you pass it on your way to India, though, as
you go through the Red Sea. Sloane is taking
Winchesters with him and a double express
and a 'five fifty.' He wants to test their pene
tration. I think myself that the express is the
best, but he says Selous and Chanler think very
highly of the Winchester. I don't know, I
never shot a rhinoceros. The time I killed
that elephant," he went on, pointing at two
tusks that stood with some assegais in a corner,
"I used an express, and I had to let go with
both barrels. I suppose, though, if I'd needed
a third shot, I'd have wished it was a Winches
ter. He was charging the smoke, you see, and
I couldn't get away because I'd caught my
foot — but I told you about that, didn't I?"
Stuart interrupted himself to ask politely.

"Yes," said the Picture, cheerfully, "I remem
ber it very well; it was very foolish of you."

Stuart straightened himself with a slightly
injured air and avoided the Picture's eye. He

231

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

had been stopped midway in what was one of
his favorite stories, and it took a brief^space of
time for him to recover himself, and to sink
back again into the pleasant lethargy in which
he had been basking.

"Still," he said, "I think the express is the
better gun.''

"Oh, is an 'express' a gun?" exclaimed the
Picture, with sudden interest. "Of course, I
might have known."

Stuart turned in his chair, and surveyed the
Picture in some surprise. "But, my dear
girl," he remonstrated, kindly, "why didn't
you ask, if you didn't know what I was talking
about? What did you suppose it was?"

" I didn't know," said the Picture; " I thought
it was something to do with his luggage. Abys
sinia sounds so far away," she explained, smiling
sweetly. " You can't expect one to be interested
in such queer places, can you?"

"No," Stuart answered, reluctantly, and look
ing steadily at the fire, "I suppose not. But
you see, my dear," he said, "I'd have gone with
him if I hadn't married you, and so I am natu
rally interested in his outfit. They wanted me
to make a comparative study of the little semi-
independent states down there, and of how far
the Italian Government allows them to rule
themselves. That's what I was to have done."

232

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

But the Picture hastened to reassure him.
"Oh, you mustn't think," she exclaimed,
quickly, "that I mean to keep you at home.
I love to travel, too. I want you to go on
exploring places just as you've always done,
only now I will go with you. We might do the
Cathedral towns, for instance."

"The what?" gasped Stuart, raising his head.
"Oh, yes, of course," he added, hurriedly,
sinking back into his chair with a slightly
bewildered expression. "That would be very
nice. Perhaps your mother would like to go,
too; it's not a dangerous expedition, is it? I
was thinking of taking you on a trip through
the South Seas — but I suppose the Cathedral
towns are just as exciting. Or we might even
penetrate as far into the interior as the English
lakes and read Wordsworth and Coleridge as
we go."

Miss Delamar's understudy observed him
closely for a moment, but he made no sign, and
so she turned her eyes again to the fire with a
slightly troubled look. She had not a strong
sense of humor, but she was very beautiful.

Stuart's conscience troubled him for the next
few moments, and he endeavored to make up
for his impatience of the moment before by
telling the Picture how particularly well she
was looking.

233

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

" It seems almost selfish to keep it all to my
self," he mused.

"You don't mean," inquired the Picture,
with tender anxiety, "that you want any one
else here, do you? I'm sure I could be content
to spend every evening like this. I've had
enough of going out and talking to people I
don't care about. Two seasons," she added,
with the superior air of one who has put away
childish things, "was quite enough of it for

me."

"Well, I never took it as seriously as that,"
said Stuart, "but, of course, I don't want any
one else here to spoil our evening. It is perfect."

He assured himself that it was perfect, but
he wondered what was the loyal thing for a
married couple to do when the conversation
came to a dead stop. And did the conversation
come to a stop because they preferred to sit
in silent sympathy and communion, or because
they had nothing interesting to talk about?
Stuart doubted if silence was the truest ex
pression of the most perfect confidence and
sympathy. He generally found when he was
interested, that either he or his companion
talked all the time. It was when he was bored
that he sat silent. But it was probably different
with married people. Possibly they thought of
each other during these pauses, and of their

234

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

own affairs and interests, and then he asked
himself how many interests could one fairly
retain with which the other had nothing to
do?

"I suppose," thought Stuart, "that I had
better compromise and read aloud. Should
you like me to read aloud?" he asked, doubt-
fully.

The Picture brightened perceptibly at this,
and said that she thought that would be charm
ing. "We might make it quite instructive,"
she suggested, entering eagerly into the idea.
"We ought to agree to read so many pages
every night. Suppose we begin with Guizot's
'History of France/ I have always meant to
read that, the illustrations look so interesting."

"Yes, we might do that," assented Stuart,
doubtfully. "It is in six volumes, isn't it?
Suppose now, instead," he suggested, with an
impartial air, "we begin that to-morrow night,
and go this evening to see Seldon's new play,
'The Fool and His Money.' It's not too late,
and he has saved a box for us, and Weimer and
Rives and Sloane will be there, and "

The Picture's beautiful face settled for just
an instant in an expression of disappointment.
"Of course," she replied, slowly, "if you wish
it. But I thought you said," she went on
with a sweet smile, "that this was perfect.

235

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY/

Now you want to go out again. Isn't this
better than a hot theatre? You might put up
with it for one evening, don't you think?"

"Put up with it!" exclaimed Stuart, enthusi
astically; "I could spend every evening so.
It was only a suggestion. It wasn't that I
wanted to go so much as that I thought Seldon
might be a little hurt if I didn't. But I can
tell him you were not feeling very well, and that
we will come some other evening. He generally
likes to have us there on the first night, that's
all. But he'll understand."

"Oh," said the Picture, "if you put it in the
light of a duty to your friend, of course we will

go."

"Not at all," replied Stuart, heartily; "I
will read something. I should really prefer it.
How would you like something of Browning's?"

"Oh, I read all of Browning once," said the
Picture. "I think I should like something

new."

Stuart gasped at this, but said nothing, and
began turning over the books on the centre-
table. He selected one of the monthly maga
zines, and choosing a story which neither of
them had read, sat down comfortably in front
of the fire, and finished it without interruption
and to the satisfaction of the Picture and him
self. The story had made the half hour pass

236

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

very pleasantly, and they both commented on
it with interest.

"I had an experience once myself something
like that/' said Stuart, with a pleased smile of
recollection; "it happened in Paris" — he began
with the deliberation of a man who is sure of
his story — " and it turned out in much the same
way. It didn't begin in Paris; it really began

while we were crossing the English Channel
. »

"Oh, you mean about the Russian who took
you for some one else and had you followed,"
said the Picture. "Yes, that was like it, except
that in your case nothing happened."

Stuart took his cigar from between his lips
and frowned severely at the lighted end for
some little time before he spoke.

"My dear," he remonstrated, gently, "you
mustn't tell me I've told you all my old stories
before. It isn't fair. Now that I am married,
you see, I can't go about and have new experi
ences, and I've got to make use of the old

ones."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," exclaimed the Picture,
remorsefully. "I didn't mean to be rude.
Please tell me about it. I should like to hear
it again, ever so much. I should like to hear it
again, really."

"Nonsense," said Stuart, laughing and shak-
237

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

his head. "I was only joking; personally I
hate people who tell long stories. That doesn't
matter. I was thinking of something else."

He continued thinking of something else,
which was, that though he had been in jest when
he spoke of having given up the chance of
meeting fresh experiences, he had nevertheless
described a condition, and a painfully true one.
His real life seemed to have stopped, and he
saw himself in the future looking back and refer
ring to it, as though it were the career of an
entirely different person, of a young man, with
quick sympathies which required satisfying, as
any appetite requires food. And he had an
uncomfortable doubt that these many ever-
ready sympathies would rebel if fed on only
one diet.

The Picture did not interrupt him in his
thoughts, and he let his mind follow his eyes as
they wandered over the objects above him on
the mantel-shelf. They all meant something
from the past — a busy, wholesome past which
had formed habits of thought and action,
habits he could no longer enjoy alone, and
which, on the other hand, it was quite impos
sible for him to share with any one else. He
was no longer to be alone.

Stuart stirred uneasily in his chair and poked
at the fire before him.

238

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

"Do you remember the day you came to see
me," said the Picture, sentimentally, "and
built the fire yourself and lighted some girl's
letters to make it burn?"

"Yes," said Stuart, "that is, I said that they
were some girl's letters. It made it more
picturesque. I am afraid they were bills. I
should say I did remember it," he continued,
enthusiastically. "You wore a black dress and
little red slippers with big black rosettes, and
you looked as beautiful as — as night — as a
moonlight night."

The Picture frowned slightly.

"You are always telling me about how I
looked," she complained; "can't you remember
any time when we were together without
remembering what I had on and how I ap
peared?"

"I cannot," said Stuart, promptly. "I can
recall lots of other things besides, but I can't
forget how you looked. You have a fashion of
emphasizing episodes in that way which is
entirely your own. But, as I say, I can remem
ber something else. Do you remember, for
instance, when we went up to West Point on
that yacht? Wasn't it a grand day, with the
autumn leaves on both sides of the Hudson,
and the dress parade, and the dance afterward
at the hotel?"

239

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

"Yes, I should think I did," said the Picture,
smiling. "You spent all your time examining
cannon, and talking to the men about 'firing
in open order/ and left me all alone."

"Left you all alone! I like that," laughed
Stuart; "all alone with about eighteen officers."

"Well, but that was natural," returned the
Picture. "They were men. It's natural for a
girl to talk to men, but why should a man
want to talk to men?"

"Well, I know better than that now," said
Stuart.

He proceeded to show that he knew better
by remaining silent for the next half hour,
during which time he continued to wonder
whether this effort to keep up a conversation
was not radically wrong. He thought of several
things he might say, but he argued that it was
an impossible situation where a man had to
make conversation with his own wife.

The clock struck ten as he sat waiting, and
he moved uneasily in his chair.

"What is it?" asked the Picture; "what
makes you so restless?"

Stuart regarded the Picture timidly for a
moment before he spoke. "I was just think
ing," he said, doubtfully, "that we might run
down after all, and take a look in at the last
act; it's not too late even now. They're sure

240

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

to run behind on the first night. And then,"
he urged, "we can go around and see Seldon.
You have never been behind the scenes, have
you? It's very interesting."

"No, I have not; but if we do," remonstrated
the Picture, pathetically, "you know all those
men will come trooping home with us. You
know they will."

"But that's very complimentary," said Stu
art. "Why, I like my friends to like my wife."

:t Yes, but you know how they stay when they
get here," she answered; "I don't believe they
ever sleep. Don't you remember the last
supper you gave me before we were married,
when Mrs. Starr and you all were discussing
Mr. Seldon's play? She didn't make a move
to go until half-past two, and I was that sleepy
I couldn't keep my eyes open."

"Yes," said Stuart, " I remember. I'm sorry.
I thought it was very interesting. Seldon
changed the whole second act on account of
what she said. Well, after this," he laughed
with cheerful desperation, "I think I shall
make up for the part of a married man in a
pair of slippers and a dressing-gown, and then
perhaps I won't be tempted to roam abroad at
night."

:'You must wear the gown they are going to
give you at Oxford," said the Picture, smiling

241

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

placidly. :<The one Aunt Lucy was telling me
about. Why do they give you a gown?" she
asked. "It seems such an odd thing to do."

"The gown comes with the degree, I believe,"
said Stuart.

"But why do they give you a degree?" per
sisted the Picture; "you never studied at Oxford,
did you?"

Stuart moved slightly in his chair and shook
his head. "I thought I told you," he said,
gently. "No, I never studied there. I wrote
some books on — things, and they liked them."

"Oh, yes, I remember now, you did tell me,"
said the Picture; "and I told Aunt Lucy about
it, and said we would be in England during the
season when you got your degree, and she said
you must be awfully clever to get it. You
see — she does appreciate you, and you always
treat her so distantly."

"Do I?" said Stuart, quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Will you have your portrait painted in it?"
asked the Picture.

"In what?"

"In the gown. You are not listening," said
the Picture, reproachfully. "You ought to.
Aunt Lucy says it's a beautiful shade of red
silk, and very long. Is it?"

"I don't know," said Stuart. He shook his
head, and dropping his chin into his hands,

242

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

stared coldly down into the fire. He tried to
persuade himself that he had been vainglorious,
and that he had given too much weight to the
honor which the University of Oxford would
bestow upon him; that he had taken the degree
too seriously, and that the Picture's view of it
was the view of the rest of the world. But he
could not convince himself that he was entirely
at fault.

"Is it too late to begin on Guizot?" sug
gested his Picture, as an alternative to his plan.
"It sounds so improving."

"Yes, it is much too late," answered Stuart,
decidedly. "Besides, I don't want to be im
proved. I want to be amused, or inspired, or
scolded. The chief good of friends is that they
do one of these three things, and a wife should
do all three."

"Which shall I do?" asked the Picture, smil
ing good-humoredly.

Stuart looked at the beautiful face and at the
reclining figure of the woman to whom he was
to turn for sympathy for the rest of his life,
and felt a cold shiver of terror, that passed
as quickly as it came. He reached out his
hand and placed it on the arm of the chair
where his wife's hand should have been, and
patted the place kindly. He would shut his
eyes to everything but that she was good and

243

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

sweet and his wife. Whatever else she lacked
that her beauty had covered up and hidden,
and the want of which had Iain unsuspected
in their previous formal intercourse, could not
be mended now. He would settle his step to
hers, and eliminate all those interests from his
life which were not hers as well. He had
chosen a beautiful idol, and not a companion,
for a wife. He had tried to warm his hands at
the fire of a diamond.

Stuart's eyes closed wearily as though to
shut out the memories of the past, or the fore
knowledge of what the future was sure to be.
His head sank forward on his breast, and with
his hand shading his eyes, he looked beyond,
through the dying fire, into the succeeding
years.

The gay little French clock on the table
sounded the hour of midnight briskly, with a
pert, insistent clamor, and at the same instant
a boisterous and unruly knocking answered it
from outside the library door.

Stuart rose uncertainly from his chair and
surveyed the tiny clock face with a startled
expression of bewilderment and relief.

"Stuart!" his friends called impatiently from
the hall. "Stuart, let us in !" and without wait
ing further for recognition a merry company of

244

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

gentlemen pushed their way noisily into the
room.

"Where the devil have you been?" demanded
Weimer. "You don't deserve to be spoken to
at all after quitting us like that. But Seldon
is so good-natured," he went on, "that he sent!
us after you. It was a great success, and he'
made a rattling good speech, and you missed
the whole thing; and you ought to be ashamed
of yourself. We've asked half the people in
front to supper — two stray Englishmen, all the
Wilton girls and their governor, and the chap
that wrote the play. And Seldon and his
brother Sam are coming as soon as they get
their make-up off. Don't stand there like
that, but hurry. What have you been do-
ing?"

Stuart gave a nervous, anxious laugh. "Oh,
don't ask me," he cried. "It was awful. I've
been trying an experiment, and I had to keep
it up until midnight, and — I'm so glad you
fellows have come," he continued, halting mid
way in his explanation. "I was blue."

"You've been asleep in front of the fire,"
said young Sloane, "and you've been dream-
ing"

"Perhaps," laughed Stuart, gayly, "perhaps.
But I'm awake now, in any event. Sloane, old
man," he cried, dropping both hands on the

245

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

youngster's shoulders, "how much money have
you? Enough to take me to Gibraltar? They
can cable me the rest."

"Hoorah!" shouted Sloane, waltzing from
one end of the room to the other. "And we're
off to Ab-yss-in-ia in the morn-ing," he sang.
"There's plenty in my money belt," he cried,
slapping his side; "you can hear the ten-pound
notes crackle whenever I breathe, and it's all
yours, my dear boy, and welcome. And I'll
prove to you that the Winchester is the better
gun."

"All right," returned Stuart, gayly, "and I'll
try to prove that the Italians don't know how
to govern a native state. But who is giving
this supper, anyway?" he demanded. "That
is the main thing — that's what I want to
know."

"You've got to pack, haven't you?" sug
gested Rives.

" I'll pack when I get back," said Stuart,
struggling into his greatcoat, and searching in
his pockets for his gloves. "Besides, my things
are always ready and there's plenty of time;
the boat doesn't leave for six hours yet."

"We'll all come back and help," said Weimer.

"Then I'll never get away," laughed Stuart.
He was radiant, happy, and excited, like a boy
back from school for the holidays. But when

246

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

they had reached the pavement, he halted and
ran his hand down into his pocket, as though
feeling for his latch-key, and stood looking
doubtfully at his friends.

"What is it now?" asked Rives, impatiently.
"Have you forgotten something?"

Stuart looked back at the front door in
momentary indecision.

"Ye-es," he answered. "I did forget some
thing. But it doesn't matter," he added, cheer
fully, taking Sloane's arm.

"Come on," he said, "and so Seldon made a
hit, did he? I am glad — and tell me, old man,
how long will we have to wait at Gib for the
P. & O.?"

Stuart's servant had heard the men trooping
down the stairs, laughing and calling to one
another as they went, and judging from this
that they had departed for the night, he put out
all the lights in the library and closed the piano,
and lifted the windows to clear the room of the
tobacco-smoke. He did not notice the beauti
ful photograph sitting upright in the armchair
before the fireplace, and so left it alone in the
deserted library.

The cold night-air swept in through the open
window and chilled the silent room, and the
dead coals in the grate dropped one by one into
the fender with a dismal echoing clatter; but

247

MISS DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY

the Picture still sat in the armchair with the
same graceful pose and the same lovely expres
sion, and smiled sweetly at the encircling
darkness.

248

THE REPORTER WHO MADE
HIMSELF KING

THE Old Time Journalist will tell you that
the best reporter is the one who works his way
up. He holds that the only way to start is as
a printer's devil or as an office boy, to learn in
time to set type, to graduate from a compositor
into a stenographer, and as a stenographer
take down speeches at public meetings, and so
finally grow into a real reporter, with a fire
badge on your left suspender, and a speaking
acquaintance with all the greatest men in the
city, not even excepting Police Captains.

That is the old time journalist's idea of it.
That is the way he was trained, and that is
why at the age of sixty he is still a reporter.
If you train up a youth in this way, he will go
into reporting with too full a knowledge of the
newspaper business, with no illusions concern
ing it, and with no ignorant enthusiasms, but
with a keen and justifiable impression that he
is not paid enough for what he does. And he
will only do what he is paid to do.

249

THE REPORTER WHO

Now, you cannot pay a good reporter for what
he does, because he does not work for pay. He
works for his paper. He gives his time, his
health, his brains, his sleeping hours, and his
eating hours, and sometimes his life, to get
news for it. He thinks the sun rises only that
men may have light by which to read it. But
if he has been in a newspaper office from his
youth up, he finds out before he becomes a
reporter that this is not so, arid loses his real
value. He should come right out of the Uni
versity where he has been doing "campus
notes" for the college weekly, and be pitch
forked out into city work without knowing
whether the Battery is at Harlem or Hunter's
Point, and with the idea that he is a Moulder
of Public Opinion and that the Power of the
Press is greater than the Power of Money, and
that the few lines he writes are of more value
in the Editor's eyes than is the column of adver
tising on the last page, which they are not.

After three years — it is sometimes longer,
sometimes not so long— he finds out that he has
given his nerves and his youth and his enthu
siasm in exchange for a general fund of miscel
laneous knowledge, the opportunity of personal
encounter with all the greatest and most remark
able men and events that have risen in those
three years, and a great fund of resource and

250

MADE HIMSELF KING

patience. He will find that he has crowded
the experiences of the lifetime of the ordinary
young business man, doctor, or lawyer, or man
about town, into three short years; that he
has learned to think and to act quickly, to be
patient and unmoved when every one else has
lost his head, actually or figuratively speaking;
to write as fast as another man can talk, and
to be able to talk with authority on matters of
which other men do not venture even to think
until they have read what he has written with
a copy-boy at his elbow on the night previous.

It is necessary for you to know this, that you
may understand what manner of man young
Albert Gordon was.

Young Gordon had been a reporter just three
years. He had left Yale when his last living
relative died, and had taken the morning train
for New York, where they had promised him
reportorial work on one of the innumerable
Greatest New York Dailies. He arrived at the
office at noon, and was sent back over the same
road on which he had just come, to Spuyten
Duyvil, where a train had been wrecked and
everybody of consequence to suburban New
York killed. One of the old reporters hurried
him to the office again with his "copy," and
after he had delivered that, he was sent to the
Tombs to talk French to a man in Murderers'

251

THE REPORTER WHO

Row, who could not talk anything else, but who
had shown some international skill in the use of a
jimmy. And at eight, he covered a flower-show
in Madison Square Garden; and at eleven was
sent over the Brooklyn Bridge in a cab to watch
a fire and make guesses at the losses to the
insurance companies.

He went to bed at one, and dreamed of shat
tered locomotives, human beings lying still
with blankets over them, rows of cells, and

' banks of beautiful flowers nodding their heads
to the tunes of the brass band in the gallery.
He decided when he awoke the next morning
that he had entered upon a picturesque and
exciting career, and as one day followed another,
he became more and more convinced of it,
and more and more devoted to it. He was
twenty then, and he was now twenty-three,
and in that time had become a great reporter,
and had been to Presidential conventions in
Chicago, revolutions in Hayti, Indian outbreaks

• on the Plains, and midnight meetings of moon
lighters in Tennessee, and had seen what work
earthquakes, floods, fire, and fever could do in
great cities, and had contradicted the President,
and borrowed matches from burglars. And
now he thought he would like to rest and
breathe a bit, and not to work again unless as
a war correspondent. The only obstacle to his

252

MADE HIMSELF KING

becoming a great war correspondent lay in the
fact that there was no war, and a war cor
respondent without a war is about as absurd an
individual as a general without an army. He
read the papers every morning on the elevated
trains for war clouds; but though there were
many war clouds, they always drifted apart,
and peace smiled again. This was very disap
pointing to young Gordon, and he became
more and more keenly discouraged.

And then as war work was out of the question,
he decided to write his novel. It was to be a
novel of New York life, and he wanted a quiet
place in which to work on it. He was already
making inquiries among the suburban residents
of his acquaintance for just such a quiet spot,
when he received an offer to go to the Island of
Opeki in the North Pacific Ocean, as secretary
to the American consul at that place. The
gentleman who had been appointed by the
President to act as consul at Opeki was Captain
Leonard T. Travis, a veteran of the Civil War,
who had contracted a severe attack of rheu
matism while camping out at night in the dew,
and who on account of this souvenir of his
efforts to save the Union had allowed the Union
he had saved to support him in one office or
another ever since. He had met young Gordon
at a dinner, and had had the presumption to ask

253

THE REPORTER WHO

him to serve as his secretary, and Gordon,
much to his surprise, had accepted his offer.
The idea of a quiet life in the tropics with new
and beautiful surroundings, and with nothing
to do and plenty of time in which to do it, and
to write his novel besides, seemed to Albert to
be just what he wanted; and though he did not
know nor care much for his superior officer, he
agreed to go with him promptly, and proceeded
to say good-by to his friends and to make his
preparations. Captain Travis was so delighted
with getting such a clever young gentleman for
his secretary, that he referred to him to his
friends as "my attache of legation"; nor did
he lessen that gentleman's dignity by telling
any one that the attache's salary was to be five
hundred dollars a year. His own salary was
only fifteen hundred dollars; and though his
brother-in-law, Senator Rainsford, tried his best
to get the amount raised, he was unsuccess
ful. The consulship to Opeki was instituted
early in the '50*8, to get rid of and reward a
third or fourth cousin of the President's, whose
services during the campaign were important,
but whose after-presence was embarrassing.
He had been created consul to Opeki as being
more distant and unaccessible than any other
known spot, and had lived and died there;
and so little was known of the island, and so

254

MADE HIMSELF KING

difficult was communication with it, that no
one knew he was dead, until Captain Travis,
in his hungry haste for office, had uprooted the
sad fact. Captain Travis, as well as Albert,
had a secondary reason for wishing to visit
Opeki. His physician had told him to go to
some warm climate for his rheumatism, and in
accepting the consulship his object was rather
to follow out his doctor's orders at his country's
expense, than to serve his country at the expense
of his rheumatism.

Albert could learn but very little of Opeki;
nothing, indeed, but that it was situated about
one hundred miles from the Island of Octavia,
which island, in turn, was simply described as
a coaling-station three hundred miles distant
from the coast of California. Steamers from
San Francisco to Yokohama stopped every
third week at Octavia, and that was all that
either Captain Travis or his secreatry could
learn of their new home. This was so very
little, that Albert stipulated to stay only as
long as he liked it, and to return to the States
within a few months if he found such a change
of plan desirable.

As he was going to what was an almost undis
covered country, he thought it would be advis
able to furnish himself with a supply of articles
with which he might trade with the native

255

THE REPORTER WHO

Opekians, and for this purpose he purchased a
large quantity of brass rods, because he had
read that Stanley did so, and added to these
brass curtain-chains, and about two hundred
leaden medals similar to those sold by street
peddlers during the Constitutional Centennial
Celebration in New York City.

He also collected even more beautiful but
less expensive decorations for Christmas-trees,
at a wholesale house on Park Row. These he
hoped to exchange for furs or feathers or weap
ons, or for whatever other curious and valuable
trophies the Island of Opeki boasted. He
already pictured his rooms on his return hung
fantastically with crossed spears and boome
rangs, feather head-dresses, and ugly idols.

His friends told him that he was doing a
very foolish thing, and argued that once out of
the newspaper world, it would be hard to regain
his place in it. But he thought the novel that
he would write while lost to the world at Opeki
would serve to make up for his temporary
absence from it, and he expressly and impres
sively stipulated that the editor should wire
him if there was a war.

Captain Travis and his secretary crossed the
continent without adventure, and took passage
from San Francisco on the first steamer that
touched at Octavia. They reached that island

256

MADE HIMSELF KING

in three days, and learned with some concern
that there was no regular communication with
Opeki, and that it would be necessary to charter
a sailboat for the trip. Two fishermen agreed
to take them and their trunks, and to get them
to their destination within sixteen hours if the
wind held good. It was a most unpleasant
sail. The rain fell with calm, relentless per
sistence from what was apparently a clear sky;
the wind tossed the waves as high as the mast
and made Captain Travis ill; and as there was
no deck to the big boat, they were forced to
huddle up under pieces of canvas, and talked
but little. Captain Travis complained of fre
quent twinges of rheumatism, and gazed for
lornly over the gunwale at the empty waste
of water.

" If I've got to serve a term of imprisonment
on a rock in the middle of the ocean for four
years," he said, "I might just as well have done
something first to deserve it. This is a pretty
way to treat a man who bled for his country.
This is gratitude, this is." Albert pulled heavily
on his pipe, and wiped the rain and spray from
his face and smiled.

"Oh, it won't be so bad when we get there,"
he said; "they say these Southern people are
always hospitable, and the whites will be glad
to see any one from the States."

257

THE REPORTER WHO

"There will be a round of diplomatic dinners,"
said the consul, with an attempt at cheerful
ness. "I have brought two uniforms to wear
at them."

It was seven o'clock in the evening when the
rain ceased, and one of the black, half-naked
fishermen nodded and pointed at a little low line
on the horizon.

"Opeki," he said. The line grew in length
until it proved to be an island with great moun
tains rising to the clouds, and, as they drew
nearer and nearer, showed a level coast running
back to the foot of the mountains and covered
with a forest of palms. They next made out a
village of thatched huts around a grassy square,
and at some distance from the village a wooden
structure with a tin roof.

" I wonder where the town is ?" asked the
consul, with a nervous glance at the fishermen.
One of them told him that what he saw was
the town.

"That?" gasped the consul. "Is that where
all the people on the island live?"

The fisherman nodded; but the other added
that there were other natives further back in
the mountains, but that they were bad men
who fought and ate each other. The consul
and his attache of legation gazed at the moun
tains with unspoken misgivings. They were

258

MADE HIMSELF KING

quite near now, and could see an immense
crowd of men and women, all of them black,
and clad but in the simplest garments, waiting
to receive them. They seemed greatly excited
and ran in and out of the huts, and up and down
the beach, as wildly as so many black ants.
But in the front of the group they distinguished
three men who they could see were white,
though they were clothed, like the others,
simply in a shirt and a short pair of trousers.
Two of these three suddenly sprang away on a
run and disappeared among the palm-trees; but
the third one, when he recognized the American
flag in the halyards, threw his straw hat in the
water and began turning handsprings over the
sand.

"That young gentleman, at least," said Al
bert, gravely, "seems pleased to see us."

A dozen of the natives sprang into the water
and came wading and swimming toward them,
grinning and shouting and swinging their
arms.

"I don't think it's quite safe, do you?" said
the consul, looking out wildly to the open sea.
"You see, they don't know who I am."

A great black giant threw one arm over the
gunwale and shouted something that sounded
as if it were spelt Owah, Owah, as the boat
carried him through the surf.

259

THE REPORTER WHO

"How do you do?" said Gordon, doubtfully.
The boat shook the giant off under the wave
and beached itself so suddenly that the Ameri
can consul was thrown forward to his knees.
Gordon did not wait to pick him up, but jumped
out and shook hands with the young man who
had turned handsprings, while the natives
gathered about them in a circle and chatted
and laughed in delighted excitement.

"I'm awfully glad to see you," said the young
man, eagerly. "My name's Stedman. I'm
from New Haven, Connecticut. Where are you
from?"

" New York," said Albert. " This," he added,
pointing solemnly to Captain Travis, who was
still on his knees in the boat, "is the American
consul to Opeki." The American consul to
Opeki gave a wild look at Mr. Stedman of
New Haven and at the natives.

"See here, young man," he gasped, "is this
all there is of Opeki?"

"The American consul?" said young Sted
man, with a gasp of amazement, and looking
from Albert to Captain Travis. "Why, I never
supposed they would send another here; the
last one died about fifteen years ago, and there
hasn't been one since. I've been living in the
consul's office with the Bradleys, but I'll move
out, of course. I'm sure I'm awfully glad to

260

MADE HIMSELF KING

see you. It'll make it so much more pleasant
for me."

"Yes," said Captain Travis, bitterly, as he
lifted his rheumatic leg over the boat; "that's
why we came."

Mr. Stedman did not notice this. He was
too much pleased to be anything but hospitable.
"You are soaking wet, aren't you?" he said;
"and hungry, I guess. You come right over
to the consul's office and get on some other
things."

He turned to the natives and gave some
rapid orders in their language, and some of
them jumped into the boat at this, and began
to lift out the trunks, and others ran off toward
a large, stout old native, who was sitting
gravely on a log, smoking, with the rain beating
unnoticed on his gray hair.

"They've gone to tell the King," said Sted
man; "but you'd better get something to eat
first, and then I'll be happy to present you
properly."

"The King," said Captain Travis, with some
awe; "is there a king?"

"I never saw a king," Gordon remarked,
"and I'm sure I never expected to see one
sitting on a log in the rain."

"He's a very good king," said Stedman,
confidentially; "and though you mightn't think

261

THE REPORTER WHO

it to look at him, he's a terrible stickler for
etiquette and form. After supper he'll give
you an audience; and if you have any tobacco,
you had better give him some as a present, and
you'd better say it's from the President: he
doesn't like to take presents from common
people, he's so proud. The only reason he
borrows mine is because he thinks I'm the
President's son."

"What makes him think that?" demanded
the consul, with some shortness. Young Mr.
Stedman looked nervously at the consul and at
Albert, and said that he guessed some one must
have told him.

The consul's office was divided into four rooms
with an open court in the middle, filled with
palms, and watered somewhat unnecessarily by
a fountain.

"I made that," said Stedman, in a modest,
offhand way. " I made it out of hollow bamboo
reeds connected with a spring. And now I'm
making one for the King. He saw this and had
a lot of bamboo sticks put up all over the town,
without any underground connections, and
couldn't make out why the water wouldn't
spurt out of them. And because mine spurts,
he thinks I'm a magician."

"I suppose," grumbled the consul, "some one
told him that too."

262

"I never saw a king," Gordon remarked.

MADE HIMSELF KING

"I suppose so," said Mr. Stedman, uneasily.

There was a veranda around the consul's
office, and inside the walls were hung with skins,
and pictures from illustrated papers, and there
was a good deal of bamboo furniture, and four
broad, cool-looking beds. The place was as
clean as a kitchen. "I made the furniture,"
said Stedman, "and the Bradleys keep the place
in order."

"Who are the Bradleys?" asked Albert.

"The Bradleys are those two men you saw
with me," said Stedman; "they deserted from
a British man-of-war that stopped here for
coal, and they act as my servants. One is
Bradley, Sr., and the other Bradley, Jr."

"Then vessels do stop here occasionally?"
the consul said, with a pleased smile.

"Well, not often," said Stedman. "Not so
very often; about once a year. The Nelson
thought this was Octavia, and put off again as
soon as she found out her mistake, but the
Bradleys took to the bush, and the boat's crew
couldn't find them. When they saw your flag,
they thought you might mean to send them
back, so they ran off to hide again; they'll be
back, though, when they get hungry."

The supper young Stedman spread for his
guests, as he still treated them, was very re
freshing and very good. There was cold fish

263

THE REPORTER WHO

and pigeon pie, and a hot omelet filled with
mushrooms and olives and tomatoes and onions
all sliced up together, and strong black coffee.
After supper, Stedman went off to see the King,
and came back in a little while to sa^y that his
Majesty would give them an audience the next
day after breakfast. "It is too dark now,"
Stedman explained; "and it's raining so that
they can't make the street-lamps burn. Did
you happen to notice our lamps? I invented
them; but they don't work very well yet.
I've got the right idea, though, and I'll soon
have the town illuminated all over, whether it
rains or not."

The consul had been very silent and indif
ferent, during supper, to all around him. Now
he looked up with some show of interest.

" How much longer is it going to rain, do you
think?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Stedman, critically.
"Not more than two months, I should say."
The consul rubbed his rheumatic leg and sighed,
but said nothing.

The Bradleys returned about ten o'clock,
and came in very sheepishly. The consul had
gone off to pay the boatmen who had brought
them, and Albert in his absence assured the
sailors that there was not the least danger of
their being sent away. Then he turned into

264

MADE HIMSELF KING

one of the beds, and Stedman took one in an
other room, leaving the room he had occupied
heretofore for the consul. As he was saying
good-night, Albert suggested that he had not
yet told them how he came to be on a deserted
island; but Stedman only laughed and said
that that was a long story, and that he would
tell him all about it in the morning. So Albert
went off to bed without waiting for the consul
to return, and fell asleep, wondering at the
strangeness of his new life, and assuring himself
that if the rain only kept up, he would have his
novel finished in a month.

The sun was shining brightly when he awoke,
and the palm-trees outside were nodding grace
fully in a warm breeze. From the court came
the odor of strange flowers, and from the window
he could see the ocean brilliantly blue, and with
the sun coloring the spray that beat against the
coral reefs on the shore.

"Well, the consul can't complain of this,"
he said, with a laugh of satisfaction; and pulling
on a bath-robe, he stepped into the next room
to awaken Captain Travis. But the room was
quite empty, and the bed undisturbed. The
consul's trunk remained just 'where it had been
placed near the door, and on it lay a large sheet
of foolscap, with writing on it, and addressed
at the top to Albert Gordon. The handwriting

265

THE REPORTER WHO

was the consul's. Albert picked it up and read
it with much anxiety. It began abruptly

The fishermen who brought us to this forsaken spot
tell me that it rains here six months in the year, and that
this is the first month. I came here to serve my country,
for which I fought and bled, but I did not come here
to die of rheumatism and pneumonia. I can serve my
country better by staying alive; and whether it rains or
not, I don't like it. I have been grossly deceived, and I
am going back. Indeed, by the time you get this, I
will be on my return trip, as I intend leaving with the
men who brought us here as soon as they can get the sail
up. My cousin, Senator Rainsford, can fix it all right
with the President, and can have me recalled in proper
form after I get back. But of course it would not do for
me to leave my post with no one to take my place, and no
one could be more ably fitted to do so than yourself; so
I feel no compunctions at leaving you behind. I hereby,
therefore, accordingly appoint you my substitute with
full power to act, to collect all fees, sign all papers, and
attend to all matters pertaining to your office as American
consul, and I trust you will worthily uphold the name of
that country and government which it has always been
my pleasure and duty to serve.

Your sincere friend and superior officer,

LEONARD T. TRAVIS.

P. S. I did not care to disturb you by moving my
trunk, so I left it, and you can make what use you please
of whatever it contains, as I shall not want tropical
garments where I am going. What you will need most,
I think, is a waterproof and umbrella.

P. S. Look out for that young man Stedman. He
is too inventive. I hope you will like your high office;
but as for myself, I am satisfied with little old New York,
Opeki is just a bit too far from civilization to suit me.

266

MADE HIMSELF KING

Albert held the letter before him and read it
over again before he moved. Then he jumped
to the window. The boat was gone, and there
was not a sign of it on the horizon.

"The miserable old hypocrite!" he cried,
half angry and half laughing. "If he thinks I
am going to stay here alone he is very greatly
mistaken. And yet, why not?" he asked. He
stopped soliloquizing and looked around him,
thinking rapidly. As he stood there, Stedman
came in from the other room, fresh and smiling
from his morning's bath.

"Good-morning," he said, "where's the con
sul?"

"The consul," said Albert, gravely, "is before
you. In me you see the American consul to
Opeki.

"Captain Travis," Albert explained, "has
returned to the United States. I suppose he
feels that he can best serve his country by re
maining on the spot. In case of another war,
now, for instance, he would be there to save it
again."

"And what are you going to do?" asked
Stedman, anxiously. "You will not run away,
too, will you?"

Albert said that he intended to remain where
he was and perform his consular duties, to
appoint him his secretary, and to elevate the

267

THE REPORTER WHO

United States in the opinion of the Opekians
above all other nations.

"They may not think much of the United
States in England," he said; "but we are going
to teach the people of Opeki that America is
first on the map and that there is no sec
ond."

"I'm sure it's very good of you to make me
your secretary," said Stedman, with some pride.
"I hope I won't make any mistakes. What
are the duties of a consul's secretary?"

"That," said Albert, "I do not know. But
you are rather good at inventing, so you can
invent a few. That should be your first duty
and you should attend to it at once. I will
have trouble enough finding work for myself.
Your salary is five hundred dollars a year;
and now," he continued briskly, "we want to
prepare for this reception. We can tell the
King that Travis was just a guard of honor for
the trip, and that I have sent him back tP tell
the President of my safe arrival. That will
keep the President from getting anxious. There
is nothing," continued Albert, "like a uniform
to impress people who live in the tropics, and
Travis, it so happens, has two in his trunk.
He intended to wear them on State occasions,
and as I inherit the trunk and all that is in it,
I intend to wear one of the uniforms, and you

268

MADE HIMSELF KING

can have the other. But I have first choice,
because I am consul/'

Captain Travis's consular outfit consisted of
one full dress and one undress United States
uniform. Albert put on the dress-coat over a
pair of white flannel trousers, and looked
remarkably brave and handsome. Stedman,
who was only eighteen and quite thin, did not
appear so well, until Albert suggested his pad
ding out his chest and shoulders with towels.
This made him rather warm, but helped his
general appearance.

"The two Bradleys must dress up, too," said
Albert. "I think they ought to act as a guard
of honor, don't you? The only things I have
are blazers and jerseys; but it doesn't much mat
ter what they wear, as long as they dress alike."

He accordingly called in the two Bradleys,
and gave them each a pair of the captain's
rejected white duck trousers, and a blue jersey
apiece, with a big white Y on it.

"The students of Yale gave me that," he
said to the younger Bradley, "in which to play
football, and a great man gave me the other.
His name is Walter Camp; and if you rip or
soil that jersey, I'll send you back to England
in irons; so be careful."

Stedman gazed at his companions in their
different costumes, doubtfully. "It reminds

269

THE REPORTER WHO

me," he said, "of private theatricals. Of the
time our church choir played * Pinafore."

"Yes," assented Albert; "but I don't think
we look quite gay enough. I tell you what we
need — medals. You never saw a diplomat with
out a lot of decorations and medals."

"Well, I can fix that," Stedman said. "I've
got a trunkful. I used to be the fastest bicycle-
rider in Connecticut, and I've got all my prizes
with me."

Albert said doubtfully that that wasn't exactly
the sort of medal he meant.

"Perhaps not," returned Stedman, as he
began fumbling in his trunk; "but the King
won't know the difference. He couldn't tell a
cross of the Legion of Honor from a medal for
the tug of war."

So the bicycle medals, of which Stedman
seemed to have an innumerable quantity, were
strung in profusion over Albert's uniform, and
in a lesser quantity over Stedman's; while a
handful of leaden ones, those sold on the streets
for the Constitutional Centennial, with which
Albert had provided himself, were wrapped up
in a red silk handkerchief for presentation to
the King; with them Albert placed a number of
brass rods and brass chains, much to Stedman's
delighted approval.

"That is a very good idea," he said. "Demo-
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cratic simplicity is the right thing at home, of
course; but when you go abroad and mix with
crowned heads, you want to show them that
you know what's what."

"Well," said Albert, gravely, "I sincerely
hope this crowned head don't know what's what.
If he reads 'Connecticut Agricultural State Fair.
One mile bicycle race. First Prize/ on this
badge, when we are trying to make him believe
it's a war medal, it may hurt his feelings."

Bradley, Jr., went ahead to announce the
approach of the American embassy, which he
did with so much manner that the King deferred
the audience a half-hour, in order that he might
better prepare to receive his visitors. When
the audience did take place, it attracted the
entire population to the green spot in front of
the King's palace, and their delight and excite
ment over the appearance of the visitors was
sincere and hearty. The King was too polite
to appear much surprised, but he showed his
delight over his presents as simply and openly
as a child. Thrice he insisted on embracing
Albert, and kissing him three times on the fore
head, which, Stedman assured him in a side-
whisper, was a great honor; an honor which
was not extended to the secretary, although he
was given a necklace of animals' claws instead,
with which he was better satisfied.

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THE REPORTER WHO

After this reception, the embassy marched
back to the consul's office, surrounded by an
immense number of natives, some of whom ran
ahead and looked back at them, and crowded
so close that the two Bradleys had to poke at
those nearest with their guns. The crowd
remained outside the office even after the pro
cession of four had disappeared, and cheered.
This suggested to Gordon that this would be a
good time to make a speech, which he accord
ingly did, Stedman translating it, sentence by
sentence. At the conclusion of this effort,
Albert distributed a number of brass rings
among the married men present, which they
placed on whichever finger fitted best, and
departed delighted.

Albert had wished to give the rings to the
married women, but Stedman pointed out to
him that it would be much cheaper to give them
to the married men; for while one woman could
only have one husband, one man could have
at least six wives.

"And now, Stedman," said Albert, after the
mob had gone, "tell me what you are doing on
this island."

"It's a very simple story," Stedman said.
" I am the representative, or agent, or operator,
for the Yokohama Cable Company. The Yoko
hama Cable Company is a company organized

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in San Francisco, for the purpose of laying a
cable to Yokohama. It is a stock company;
and though it started out very well, the stock
has fallen very low. Between ourselves, it is
not worth over three or four cents. When the
officers of the company found out that no one
would buy their stock, and that no one believed
in them or their scheme, they laid a cable to
Octavia, and extended it on to this island. Then
they said they had run out of ready money, and
would wait until they got more before laying
their cable any farther. I do not think they
ever will lay it any farther, but that is none of my
business. My business is to answer cable mes
sages from San Francisco, so that the people
who visit the home office can see that at least
a part of the cable is working. That some
times impresses them, and they buy stock.
There is another chap over in Octavia, who
relays all my messages and all my replies to
those messages that come to me through him
from San Francisco. They never send a mes
sage unless they have brought some one to the
office whom they want to impress, and who,
they think, has money to invest in the Y. C. C.
stock, and so we never go near the wire, except
at three o'clock every afternoon. And then
generally only to say 'How are you?' or 'It's
raining/ or something like that. I've been say-

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THE REPORTER WHO

ing 'It's raining,' now for the last three months,
but to-day I will say that the new consul has
arrived. That will be a pleasant surprise for
the chap in Octavia, for he must be tired hearing
about the weather. He generally answers,
'Here too,' or 'So you said,' or something like
that. I don't know what he says to the home
office. He's brighter than I am, and that's
why they put him between the two ends. He
can see that the messages are transmitted more
fully and more correctly, in a way to please
possible subscribers."

"Sort of copy editor," suggested Albert.

"Yes, something of that sort, I fancy," said
Stedman.

They walked down to the little shed on the
shore, where the Y. C. C. office was placed, at
three that day, and Albert watched Stedman
send off his message with much interest. The
"chap at Octavia," on being informed that the
American consul had arrived at Opeki, inquired,
somewhat disrespectfully, " Is it a life sentence?"

"What does he mean by that?" asked Albert.

"I suppose," said his secretary, doubtfully,
"that he thinks it a sort of a punishment to be
sent to Opeki. I hope you won't grow to think

so."

"Opeki is all very well," said Gordon, "or it
will be when we get things going our way."

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As they walked back to the office, Albert
noticed a brass cannon, perched on a rock at
the entrance to the harbor. This had been put
there by the last consul, but it had not been
fired for many years. Albert immediately or
dered the two Bradleys to get it in order, and
to rig up a flag-pole beside it, for one of his
American flags, which they were to salute
every night when they lowered it at sun
down.

"And when we are not using it," he said,
"the King can borrow it to celebrate with, if
he doesn't impose on us too often. The royal
salute ought to be twenty-one guns, I think;
but that would use up too much powder, so he
will have to content himself with two."

"Did you notice," asked Stedman, that
night, as they sat on the veranda of the consul's
house, in the moonlight, "how the people
bowed to us as we passed?"

"Yes," Albert said he had noticed it.
"Why?"

"Well, they never saluted me," replied Sted
man. "That sign of respect is due to the show
we made at the reception."

"It is due to us, in any event," said the
consul, severely. "I tell you, my secretary,
that we, as the representatives of the United
States Government, must be properly honored

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THE REPORTER WHO

on this island. We must become a power.
And we must do so without getting into trouble
with the King. We must make them honor
him, too, and then as we push him up, we will
push ourselves up at the same time."

"They don't think much of consuls in Opeki,"
said Stedman, doubtfully. "You see the last
one was a pretty poor sort. He brought the
office into disrepute, and it wasn't really until
I came and told them what a fine country the
United States was, that they had any opinion
of it at all. Now we must change all that."

"That is just what we will do," said Albert.
"We will transform Opeki into a powerful and
beautiful city. We will make these people work.
They must put up a palace for the King, and
lay out streets, and build wharves, and drain
the town properly, and light it. I haven't seen
this patent lighting apparatus of yours, but you
had better get to work at it at once, and I'll
persuade the King to appoint you commissioner
of highways and gas, with authority to make his
people toil. And I," he cried, in free enthu
siasm, "will organize a navy and a standing
army. Only," he added, with a relapse of
interest, "there isn't anybody to fight."

"There isn't?" said Stedman, grimly, with a
scornful smile. "You just go hunt up old
Messenwah and the Hillmen with your standing

MADE HIMSELF KING

army once and you'll get all the fighting you
want/'

"The Hillmen?" said Albert.

"The Hillmen are the natives that live up
there in the hills," Stedman said, nodding his
head toward the three high mountains at the
other end of the island, that stood out blackly
against the purple, moonlit sky. " There are
nearly as many of them as there are Opekians,
and they hunt and fight for a living and for the
pleasure of it. They have an old rascal named
Messenwah for a king, and they come down
here about once every three months, and tear
things up."

Albert sprang to his feet.

"Oh, they do, do they?" he said, staring up
at the mountain-tops. "They come down here
and tear up things, do they? Well, I think
we'll stop that, I think we'll stop that! I
don't care how many there are. I'll get the
two Bradleys to tell me all they know about
drilling, to-morrow morning, and we'll drill
these Opekians, and have sham battles, and
attacks, and repulses, until I make a lot of
wild, howling Zulus out of them. And when
the Hillmen come down to pay their quarterly
visit, they'll go back again on a run. At least
some of them will," he added, ferociously.
"Some of them will stay right here."

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THE REPORTER WHO

"Dear me, dear me!" said Stedman, with
awe; "you are a born fighter, aren't you?"

"Well, you wait and see," said Gordon;
"maybe I am. I haven't studied tactics of
war and the history of battles, s*o that I might
be a great war correspondent, without learning
something. And there is only one king on this
island, and that is old Ollypybus himself. And
I'll go over and have a talk with him about it
to-morrow."

Young Stedman walked up and down the
length of the veranda, in and out of the moon
light, with his hands in his pockets, and his
head on his chest. "You have me all stirred
up, Gordon," he said; "you seem so confident
and bold, and you're not so much older than I
am, either."

"My training has been different; that's all,"
said the reporter.

"Yes," Stedman said, bitterly. " I have been
sitting in an office ever since I left school,
-sending news over a wire or a cable, and you
have been out in the world, gathering it."

"And now," said Gordon, smiling, and put
ting his arm around the other boy's shoulders,
"we are going to make news ourselves."

" There is one thing I want to say to you before
you turn in," said Stedman. "Before you sug
gest all these improvements on Ollypybus, you

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must remember that he has ruled absolutely
here for twenty years, and that he does not
think much of consuls. He has only seen your
predecessor and yourself. He likes you because
you appeared with such dignity, and because
of the presents; but if I were you, I wouldn't
suggest these improvements as coming from
yourself."

"I don't understand," said Gordon; "who
could they come from?"

"Well," said Stedman, "if you will allow me
to advise — and you see I know these people
pretty well — I would have all these suggestions
come from the President direct."

"The President!" exclaimed Gordon; "but
how? What does the President know or care
about Opeki? and it would take so long — oh, I
see, the cable. Is that what you have been
doing?" he asked.

"Well, only once," said Stedman, guiltily;
"that was when he wanted to turn me out of
the consul's office, and I had a cable that very
afternoon, from the President, ordering me to
stay where I was. Ollypybus doesn't under
stand the cable, of course, but he knows that it
sends messages; and sometimes I pretend to
send messages for him to the President; but
he began asking me to tell the President to
come arid pay him a visit, and I had to stop it."

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THE REPORTER WHO

"I'm glad you told me," said Gordon. "The
President shall begin to cable to-morrow. He
will need an extra appropriation from Congress
to pay for his private cablegrams alone."

"And there's another thing," said Stedman.
"In all your plans, you've arranged for the
people's improvement, but not for their amuse
ment; and they are a peaceful, jolly, simple
sort of people, and we must please them."

"Have they no games or amusements of their
own?" asked Gordon.

"Well, not what we would call games."

"Very well, then, I'll teach them base-ball.
Foot-ball would be too warm. But that plaza
in front of the King's bungalow, where his
palace is going to be, is just the place for a
diamond. On the whole, though," added the
consul, after a moment's reflection, "you'd
better attend to that yourself. I don't think
it becomes my dignity as American consul to
take off my coat and give lessons to young
Opekians in sliding to bases; do you? No; I
think you'd better do that. The Bradleys will
help you, and you had better begin to-morrow.
You have been wanting to know what a secre
tary of legation's duties are, and now you know.
It's to organize base-ball nines. And after you
get yours ready," he added, as he turned into
his room for the night, " I'll train one that will

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MADE HIMSELF KING

sweep yours off the face of the island. For
this American consul can pitch three curves."

The best laid plans of men go far astray, some
times, and the great and beautiful city that was
to rise on the coast of Opeki was not built in a
day. Nor was it ever built. For before the
Bradleys could mark out the foul-lines for the
base-ball field on the plaza, or teach their stand
ing army the goose step, or lay bamboo pipes
for the water-mains, or clear away the cactus
for the extension of the King's palace, the Hill-
men paid Opeki their quarterly visit.

Albert had called on the King the next
morning, with Stedman as his interpreter, as he
had said he would, and, with maps and sketches,
had shown his Majesty what he proposed to do
toward improving Opeki and ennobling her
king, and when the King saw Albert's free-hand
sketches of wharves with tall ships lying at
anchor, and rows of Opekian warriors with the
Bradleys at their head, and the design for his
new palace, and a royal sedan chair, he believed
that these things were already his, and not
still only on paper, and he appointed Albert his
Minister of War, Stedman his Minister of
Home Affairs, and selected two of his wisest
and oldest subjects to serve them as joint ad
visers. His enthusiasm was even greater than
Gordon's, because he did not appreciate the

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THE REPORTER WHO

difficulties. He thought Gordon a semi-god,
a worker of miracles, and urged the putting up
of a monument to him at once in the public
plaza, to which Albert objected, on the ground
that it would be too suggestive of an idol; and
to which Stedman also objected, but for the
less unselfish reason that it would "be in the
way of the pitcher's box."

They were feverishly discussing all these great
changes, and Stedman was translating as rapidly
as he could translate, the speeches of four dif
ferent men — for the two counsellors had been
called in — all of whom wanted to speak at once
when there came from outside a great shout,
and the screams of women, and the clashing of
iron, and the pattering footsteps of men running.

As they looked at one another in startled
surprise, a native ran into the room, followed by
Bradley, Jr., and threw himself down before
the King. While he talked, beating his hands
and bowing before Ollypybus, Bradley, Jr.,
pulled his forelock to the consul, and told how
this man lived on the far outskirts of the
village; how he had been captured while out
hunting, by a number of the Hillmen; and how
he had escaped to tell the people that their
old enemies were on the war-path again, and
rapidly approaching the village.

Outside, the women were gathering in the
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plaza, with the children about them, and the
men were running from hut to hut, warning
their fellows, and arming themselves with spears
and swords, and the native bows and arrows.

"They might have waited until we had that
army trained," said Gordon, in a tone of the
keenest displeasure. "Tell me, quick, what do
they generally do when they come?"

"Steal all the cattle and goats, and a woman
or two, and set fire to the huts in the outskirts,"
replied Stedman.

"Well, we must stop them," said Gordon,
jumping up. "We must take out a flag of
truce and treat with them. They must be kept
off until I have my army in working order.
It is most inconvenient. If they had only
waited two months, now, or six weeks even, we
could have done something; but now we must
make peace. Tell the King we are going out
to fix things with them, and tell him to keep
off his warriors until he learns whether we
succeed or fail."

"But, Gordon!" gasped Stedman. "Albert!
You don't understand. Why, man, this isn't
a street-fight or a cane-rush. They'll stick you
full of spears, dance on your body, and eat you,
maybe. A flag of truce ! — you're talking non
sense. What do they know of a flag of truce?"

" You're talking nonsense, too," said Albert,

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THE REPORTER WHO

"and you're talking to your superior officer.
If you are not with me in this, go back to your
cable, and tell the man in Octavia that it's a
warm day, and that the sun is shining; but if
you've any spirit in you — and I think you
have — run to the office and get my Winchester
rifles, and the two shot-guns, and my revolvers,
and my uniform, and a lot of brass things for
presents, and run all the way there and back.
And make time. Play you're riding a bicycle
at the Agricultural Fair."

Stedman did not hear this last, for he was
already off and away, pushing through the
crowd, and calling on Bradley, Sr., to follow
him. Bradley, Jr., looked at Gordon with
eyes that snapped, like a dog that is waiting
for his master to throw a stone.

"I can fire a Winchester, sir," he said. "Old
Tom can't. He's no good at long range 'cept
with a big gun, sir. Don't give him the Win
chester. Give it to me, please, sir."

Albert met Stedman in the plaza, and pulled
off his blazer, and put on Captain Travis's —
now his — uniform coat, and his white pith
helmet.

"Now, Jack," he said, "get up there and tell
these people that we are going out to make
peace with these Hillmen, or bring them back
prisoners of war. Tell them we are the pre-
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MADE HIMSELF KING

servers of their homes and wives and children;
and you, Bradley, take these presents, and
young Bradley, keep close to me, and carry
this rifle."

Stedman's speech was hot and wild enough
to suit a critical and feverish audience before a
barricade in Paris. And when he was through,
Gordon and Bradley punctuated his oration by
firing off the two Winchester rifles in the air,
at which the people jumped and fell on their
knees, and prayed to their several gods. The
fighting men of the village followed the four
white men to the outskirts, and took up their
stand there as Stedman told them to do, and
the four walked on over the roughly hewn
road, to meet the enemy.

Gordon walked with Bradley, Jr., in advance.
Stedman and old Tom Bradley followed close
behind with the two shot-guns, and the presents
in a basket.

"Are these Hillmen used to guns?" asked
Gordon. Stedman said no, they were not.

"This shot-gun of mine is the only one on the
island," he explained, "and we never came
near enough them before to do anything with
it. It only carries a hundred yards. The
Opekians never make any show of resistance.
They are quite content if the Hillmen satisfy
themselves with the outlying huts, as long as

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THE REPORTER WHO

they leave them and the town alone; so they
seldom come to close quarters."

The four men walked on for half an hour or
so in silence, peering eagerly on every side;
but it was not until they had left the woods and
marched out into the level stretch of grassy
country that they came upon the enemy.
The Hillmen were about forty in number, and
were as savage and ugly-looking giants as any
in a picture-book. They had captured a dozen
cows and goats, and were driving them on
before them, as they advanced farther upon
the village. When they saw the four men,
they gave a mixed chorus of cries and yells,
and some of them stopped, and others ran
forward, shaking their spears, and shooting
their broad arrows into the ground before
them. A tall, gray-bearded, muscular old man,
with a skirt of feathers about him, and neck
laces of bones and animals' claws around his
bare chest, ran in front of them, and seemed to
be trying to make them approach more slowly.

"Is that Messenwah?" asked Gordon.

"Yes," said Stedman; "he is trying to keep
them back. I don't believe he ever saw a white
man before."

"Stedman," said Albert, speaking quickly,
"give your gun to Bradley, and go forward
with your arms in the air, and waving your

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handkerchief, and tell them in their language
that the King is coming. If they go at you,
Bradley and I will kill a goat or two, to show
them what we can do with the rifles; and if
that don't stop them, we will shoot at their
legs; and if that don't stop them — I guess
you'd better come back, and we'll all run."

Stedman looked at Albert, and Albert looked
at Stedman, and neither of them winced or
flinched.

"Is this another of my secretary's duties?"
asked the younger boy.

"Yes," said the consul; "but a resignation is
always in order. You needn't go if you don't
like it. You see, you know the language and I
don't, but I know how to shoot; and you don't."

" That's perfectly satisfactory," said Sted
man, handing his gun to old Bradley. " I only
wanted to know why I was to be sacrificed
instead of one of the Bradleys. It's because I
know the language. Bradley, Sr., you see the
evil results of a higher education. Wish me
luck, please," he said, "and for goodness'
sake," he added impressively, "don't waste
much time shooting goats."

The Hillmen had stopped about two hundred
yards off, and were drawn up in two lines,
shouting, and dancing, and hurling taunting
remarks at their few adversaries. The stolen

287

THE REPORTER WHO

cattle were bunched together back of the King.
As Stedman walked steadily forward with his
handkerchief fluttering, and howling out some
thing in their own tongue, they stopped and
listened. As he advanced, his three companions
followed him at about fifty yards in the rear.
He was one hundred and fifty yards from the
Hillmen before they made out what he said,
and then one of the young braves, resenting it
as an insult to his chief, shot an arrow at him.
Stedman dodged the arrow and stood his ground
without even taking a step backward, only
turning slightly to put his hands to his mouth,
and to shout something which sounded to his
companions like, "About time to begin on the
goats." But the instant the young man had
fired, King Messenwah swung his club and
knocked him down, and none of the others
moved. Then Messenwah advanced before his
men to meet Stedman, and on Stedman's
opening and shutting his hands to show that he
was unarmed, the King threw down his club
and spears, and came forward as empty-handed
as himself.

"Ah," gasped Bradley, Jr., with his finger
trembling on his lever, "let me take a shot at
him now." Gordon struck the man's gun up,
and walked forward in all the glory of his gold
and blue uniform; for both he and Stedman

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saw now that Messenwah was more impressed
by their appearance, and in the fact that they
were white men, than with any threats of
immediate war. So when he saluted Gordon
haughtily, that young man gave him a haughty
nod in return, and bade Stedman tell the King
that he \vould permit him to sit down. The
King did not quite appear to like this, but he sat
down, nevertheless, and nodded his head gravely.

"Now tell him," said Gordon, "that I come
from the ruler of the greatest nation on earth,
and that I recognize Ollypybus as the only
King of this island, and that I come to this
little three-penny King with either peace and
presents, or bullets and war."

"Have I got to tell him he's a little three
penny King?" said Stedman, plaintively.

"No; you needn't give a literal translation;
it can be as free as you please."

" Thanks," said the secretary, humbly.

"And tell him," continued Gordon, "that we
will give presents to him and his warriors if he
keeps away from Ollypybus, and agrees to keep
away always. If he won't do that, try to get
him to agree to stay away for three months at
least, and by that time we can get word to San
Francisco, and have a dozen muskets over here
in two months; and when our time of proba
tion is up, and he and his merry men come

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THE REPORTER WHO

dancing down the hillside, we will blow them
up as high as his mountains. But you needn't
tell him that, either. And if he is proud and
haughty, and would rather fight, ask him to
restrain himself until we show what we can do
with our weapons at two hundred yards."

Stedman seated himself in the long grass in
front of the King, and with many revolving
gestures of his arms, and much pointing to
Gordon, and profound nods and bows, retold
what Gordon had dictated. When he had
finished, the King looked at the bundle of
presents, and at the guns, of which Stedman
had given a very wonderful account, but
answered nothing.

"I guess," said Stedman, with a sigh, "that
we will have to give him a little practical
demonstration to help matters. I am sorry,
but I think one of those goats has got to die.
It's like vivisection. The lower order of animals
have to suffer for the good of the higher."

"Oh," said Bradley, Jr., cheerfully, "I'd just
as soon shoot one of those niggers as one of the
goats."

So Stedman bade the King tell his men to
drive a goat toward them, and the King did so,
and one of the men struck one of the goats with
his spear, and it ran clumsily across the plain.

"Take your time, Bradley," said Gordon.
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" Aim low, and if you hit it, you can have it for
supper."

"And if you miss it," said Stedman, gloomily,
"Messenwah may have us for supper."

The Hillmen had seated themselves a hundred
yards off, while the leaders were debating, and
they now rose curiously and watched Bradley,
as he sank upon one knee, and covered the goat
with his rifle. When it was about one hundred
and fifty yards off he fired, and the goat fell
over dead.

And then all the Hillmen, with the King him
self, broke away on a run, toward the dead
animal, with much shouting. The King came
back alone, leaving his people standing about
and examining the goat. He was much excited,
and talked and gesticulated violently.

"He says — " said Stedman; "he says "

"What? yes, go on."

"He says — goodness me ! — what do you think
he says?"

"Well, what does he say?" cried Gordon, in
great excitement. "Don't keep it all to your
self."

"He says," said Stedman, "that we are de
ceived; that he is no longer King of the Island
of Opeki; that he is in great fear of us, and
that he has got himself into no end of trouble.
He says he sees that we are indeed mighty

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men, that to us he is as helpless as the wild
boar before the javelin of the hunter."

"Well, he's right," said Gordon. "Go on."

"But that which we ask is no longer his to
give. He has sold his kingship and his right
to this island to another king, who came to him
two days ago in a great canoe, and who made
noises as we do — with guns, I suppose he means
— and to whom he sold the island for a watch
that he has in a bag around his neck. And
that he signed a paper, and made marks on a
piece of bark, to show that he gave up the
island freely and forever."

"What does he mean?" said Gordon. "How
can he give up the island? Ollypybus is the
king of half of it, anyway, and he knows it."

"That's just it," said Stedman. "That's
what frightens him. He said he didn't care
about Ollypybus, and didn't count him in when
he made the treaty, because he is such a peace
ful chap that he knew he could thrash him into
doing anything he wanted him to do. And now
that you have turned up and taken Ollypybus's
part, he wishes he hadn't sold .he island, and
wishes to know if you are angry."

"Angry? of course I'm angry," said Gordon,
glaring as grimly at the frightened monarch as
he thought was safe. " Who wouldn't be angry ?
Who do you think these people were who made

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MADE HIMSELF KING

a fool of him, Stedman? Ask him to let us see
this watch."

Stedman did so, and the King fumbled among
his necklaces until he had brought out a leather
bag tied round his neck with a cord, and contain
ing a plain stem-winding silver watch marked
on the inside "Munich."

"That doesn't tell anything," said Gordon.
"But it's plain enough. Some foreign ship of
war has settled on this place as a coaling-station,
or has annexed it for colonization, and they've
sent a boat ashore, and they've' made a treaty
with this old chap, and forced him to sell his
birthright for a mess of porridge. Now, that's
just like those monarchical pirates, imposing
upon a poor old black."

Old Bradley looked at him impudently.

"Not at all," said Gordon; "it's quite dif
ferent with us; we don't want to rob him or
OHypybus, or to annex their land. All we want
to do is to improve it, and have the fun of
running it for them and meddling in their
affairs of state. Well, Stedman," he said,
"what shall we do?"

Stedman said that the best and only thing to
do was to threaten to take the watch away from
Messenwah, but to give him a revolver instead,
which would make a friend of him for life, and
to keep him supplied with cartridges only as

293

THE REPORTER WHO

long as he behaved himself, and then to make
him understand that, as Ollypybus had not
given his consent to the loss of the island,
Messenwah's agreement, or treaty, or whatever
it was, did not stand, and that he had better
come down the next day, early in the morning,
and join in a general consultation. This was
done, and Messenwah agreed willingly to their
proposition, and was given his revolver and
shown how to shoot it, while the other presents
were distributed among the other men, who
were as happy over them as girls with a full
<iance-card.

"And now, to-morrow," said Stedman, "un-
4derstand, you are all to come down unarmed, and
sign a treaty with great Ollypybus, in which
he will agree to keep to one-half of the island
if you keep to yours, and there must be no
more wars or goat-stealing, or this gentleman
on my right and I will come up and put holes
in you just as the gentleman on the left did
with the goat."

Messenwah and his warriors promised to
come early, and saluted reverently as Gordon
and his three companions walked up together
very proudly and stiffly.

"Do you know how I feel?" said Gordon.

"How?" asked Stedman.

"I feel as I used to do in the city, when the
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MADE HIMSELF KING

boys in the street were throwing snowballs,
and I had to go by with a high hat on my head
and pretend not to know they were behind me.
I always felt a cold chill down my spinal column,
and I could feel that snowball, whether it came
or not, right in the small of my back. And I
can feel one of those men pulling his bow now,
and the arrow sticking out of my right shoulder."

"Oh, no, you can't," said Stedman. "They
are too much afraid of those rifles. But I do
feel sorry for any of those warriors whom old
man Messenwah doesn't like, now that he has
that revolver. He isn't the sort to practise
on goats."

There was great rejoicing when Stedman
and Gordon told their story to the King, and
the people learned that they were not to have
their huts burned and their cattle stolen. The
armed Opekians formed a guard around the
ambassadors and escorted them to their homes
with cheers and shouts, and the women ran to
their side and tried to kiss Gordon's hand.

"I'm sorry I can't speak the language, Sted
man," said Gordon, "or I would tell them what
a brave man you are. You are too modest to
do it yourself, even if I dictated something for
you to say. As for me," he said, pulling off
his uniform, "I am thoroughly disgusted and
disappointed. It never occurred to me until

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THE REPORTER WHO

it was all over that this was my chance to be a
war correspondent. It wouldn't have been much
of a war, but then I would have been the only
one on the spot, and that counts for a great deal.
Still, my time may come."

"We have a great deal on hand for to-mor
row," said Gordon that evening, "and we had
better turn in early."

And so the people were still singing and
rejoicing down in the village when the two
conspirators for the peace of the country went
to sleep for the night. It seemed to Gordon as
though he had hardly turned his pillow twice
to get the coolest side when some one touched
him, and he saw, by the light of the dozen glow
worms in the tumbler by his bedside, a tall
figure at its foot.

"It's me — Bradley," said the figure.

"Yes," said Gordon, with the haste of a man
to show that sleep has no hold on him; "exactly;
what is it?"

"There is a ship of war in the harbor," Brad
ley answered in a whisper. "I heard her
anchor chains rattle when she came to, and that
woke me. I could hear that if I were dead.
And then I made sure by her lights; she's a
great boat, sir, and I can know she's a ship of
war by the challenging when they change the
watch. I thought you'd like to know, sir."

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MADE HIMSELF KING

Gordon sat up and clutched his knees with
his hands. "Yes, of course," he said; "you
are quite right. Still, I don't see what there
is to do."

He did not wish to show too much youthful
interest, but though fresh from civilization, he
had learned how far from it he was, and he was
curious to see this sign of it that had come
so much more quickly than he had antici
pated.

"Wake Mr. Stedman, will you?" said he,
"and we will go and take a look at her."

"You can see nothing but the lights," said
Bradley, as he left the room; "it's a black
night, sir."

Stedman was not new from the sight of men
and ships of war, and came in half dressed and
eager.

"Do you suppose it's the big canoe Messen-
wah spoke of?" he said.

" I thought of that," said Gordon.

The three men fumbled their way down the
road to the plaza, and saw, as soon as they
{turned into it, the great outlines and the bril
liant lights of an immense vessel, still more
immense in the darkness, and glowing like a
strange monster of the sea, with just a sug
gestion here and there, where the lights spread,
of her cabins and bridges. As they stood on

297

THE REPORTER WHO

the shore, shivering in the cool night-wind, they
heard the bells strike over the water.

"It's two o'clock," said Bradley, counting.

"Well, we can do nothing, and they cannot
mean to do much to-night," Albert said. "We
had better get some more sleep, and, Bradley,
you keep watch and tell us as soon as day
breaks."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the sailor.

"If that's the man-of-war that made the
treaty with Messenwah, and Messenwah turns
up to-morrow, it looks as if our day would be
pretty well filled up," said Albert, as they felt
their way back to the darkness.

"What do you intend to do?" asked his
secretary, with a voice of some concern.

"I don't know," Albert answered gravely,
from the blackness of the night. " It looks as
if we were getting ahead just a little too fast,
doesn't it? Well," he added, as they reached
the house, "let's try to keep in step with the
procession, even if we can't be drum-majors
and walk in front of it." And with this cheering
tone of confidence in their ears, the twro diplo
mats went soundly asleep again.

The light of the rising sun filled the room, and
the parrots were chattering outside, when Brad
ley woke him again.

"They are sending a boat ashore, sir," he
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MADE HIMSELF KING

said, excitedly, and filled with the importance
of the occasion. " She's a German man-of-war,
and one of the new model. A beautiful boat,
sir; for her lines were laid in Glasgow, and I
can tell that, no matter what flag she flies.
You had best be moving to meet them: the
village isn't awake yet."

Albert took a cold bath and dressed leisurely;
then he made Bradley, Jr., who had slept
through it all, get up breakfast, and the two
young men ate it and drank their coffee com
fortably and with an air of confidence that
deceived their servants, if it did not deceive
themselves. But when they' came down the
path, smoking and swinging their sticks, and
turned into the plaza, their composure left
them like a mask, and they stopped where they
stood. The plaza was enclosed by the natives
gathered in whispering groups, and depressed
by fear and wonder. On one side were crowded
all the Messenwah warriors, unarmed, and as si
lent and disturbed as the Opekians. In the mid
dle of the plaza some twenty sailors were busy
rearing and bracing a tall flag-staff that they
had shaped from a royal palm, and they did this
as unconcernedly and as contemptuously, and
with as much indifference to the strange groups
on either side of them, as though they were
working on a barren coast, with nothing but

299

THE REPORTER WHO

the startled sea-gulls about them. As Albert
and Stedman came upon the scene, the flag
pole was in place, and the halyards hung from
it with a little bundle of bunting at the end of
one of them.

"We must find the King at once," said Gor
don. He was terribly excited and angry. "It
is easy enough to see what this means. They
are going through the form of annexing this
island to the other lands of the German Govern
ment. They are robbing old Ollypybus of
what is his. They have not even given him a
silver watch for it."

The King was in his bungalow, facing the
plaza. Messenwah was with him, and an equal
number of each of their councils. The common
danger had made them lie down together in
peace; but they gave a murmur of relief as
Gordon strode into the room with no cere*
mony, and greeted them with a curt wave of
the hand.

"Now then, Stedman, be quick," he said.
"Explain to them what this means; tell them
that I will protect them; that I am anxious to
see that Ollypybus is not cheated; that we will
do all we can for them."

Outside, on the shore, a second boat's crew
had landed a group of officers and a file ( f
marines. They walked in all the dignity ol

300

MADE HIMSELF KING

full dress across the plaza to the flag-pole, and
formed in line on the three sides of it, with
the marines facing the sea. The officers, from
the captain with a prayer-book in his hand, to
the youngest middy, were as indifferent to the
frightened natives about them as the other
men had been. The natives, awed and afraid,
crouched back among their huts, the marines
and the sailors kept their eyes front, and the
German captain opened his prayer-book. The
debate in the bungalow was over.

"If you only had your uniform, sir," said
Bradley, Sr., miserably.

"This is a little bit too serious for uniforms
and bicycle medals," said Gordon. "And these
men are used to gold lace."

He pushed his way through the natives, and
stepped confidently across the plaza. The
youngest middy saw him coming, and nudged
the one next him with his elbow, and he nudged
the next, but none of the officers moved, because
the captain had begun to read.

"One minute, please," called Gordon.

He stepped out into the hollow square formed
by the marines, and raised his helmet to the
captain.

"Do you speak English or French?" Gordon
said in French; "I do not understand German."

The captain lowered the book in his hands
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THE REPORTER WHO

and gazed reflectively at Gordon through his
spectacles, and made no reply.

" If I understand this," said the younger man,
trying to be very impressive and polite, "you
are laying claim to this land, in behalf of the
German Government."

The captain continued to observe him
thoughtfully, and then said, "That iss so,"
and then asked, "Who are you?"

"I represent the King of this island, Olly-
pybus, whose people you see around you. I
also represent the United States Government,
that does not tolerate a foreign power near her
coast, since the days of President Monroe and
before. The treaty you have made with Mes-
senwah is an absurdity. There is only one king
with whom to treat, and he "

The captain turned to one of his officers and
said something, and then, after giving another
curious glance at Gordon, raised his book and
continued reading, in a deep, unruffled mono
tone. The officer whispered an order, and two
of the marines stepped out of line, and dropping
the muzzles of their muskets, pushed Gordon
back out of the enclosure, and left him there
with his lips white, and trembling all over with
indignation. He would have liked to have
rushed back into the lines and broken the cap
tain's spectacles over his sun-tanned nose and

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MADE HIMSELF KING

cheeks, but he was quite sure this would only
result in his getting shot, or in his being made
ridiculous before the natives, which was almost
as bad; so he stood still for a moment, with his
blood choking him, and then turned and walked
back to where the King and Stedman were
whispering together. Just as he turned, one
of the men pulled the halyards, the ball of
bunting ran up into the air, bobbed, twitched,
and turned, and broke into the folds of the
German flag. At the same moment the marines
raised their muskets and fired a volley, and the
officers saluted and the sailors cheered.

"Do you see that?" cried Stedman, catching
Gordon's humor, to OHypybus; "that means
that you are no longer king, that strange people
are coming here to take your land, and to turn
your people into servants, and to drive you
back into the mountains. Are you going to
submit? are you going to let that flag stay
where it is?"

Messenwah and Ollypybus gazed at one
another with fearful, helpless eyes. "We are
afraid/' Ollypybus cried; "we do not know
what we should do."

"What do they say?"

"They say they do not know what to do."

"I know what I'd do," cried Gordon. "If I
were not an American consul, I'd pull down

303

THE REPORTER WHO

their old flag, and put a hole in their boat and
sink her."

"Well, Fd wait until they get under way
before you do either of those things," said
Stedman, soothingly. "That captain seems to
be a man of much determination of character."

"But I will pull it down," cried Gordon.
"I will resign, as Travis did. I am no longer
consul. You can be consul if you want to. I
promote you. I am going up a step higher.
I mean to be king. Tell those two," he ran on,
excitedly, "that their only course and only
hope is in me; that they must make me ruler
of the island until this thing is over; that I
will resign again as soon as it is settled, but
that some one must act at once, and if they
are afraid to, I am not, only they must give me
authority to act for them. They must abdicate
in my favor."

"Are you in earnest?" gasped Stedman.

"Don't I talk as if I were?" demanded
Gordon, wiping the perspiration from his fore
head.

"And can I be consul?" said Stedman,
cheerfully.

"Of course. Tell them what I propose to
do."

Stedman turned and spoke rapidly to the two
kings. The people gathered closer to hear.

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MADE HIMSELF KING

The two rival monarchs looked at one another
in silence for a moment, and then both began
to speak at once, their counsellors interrupting
them and mumbling their guttural comments
with anxious earnestness. It did not take them
very long to see that they were all of one mind,
and then they both turned to Gordon and
dropped on one knee, and placed his hands on
they: foreheads, and Stedman raised his cap.

"They agree," he explained, for it was but
pantomime to Albert. "They salute you as a
ruler; they are calling you Tellaman, which
means peacemaker. The Peacemaker, that is
your title. I hope you will deserve it, but I
think they might have chosen a more appro
priate one."

"Then I'm really King?" demanded Albert,
decidedly, "and I can do what I please? They
give me full power. Quick, do they?"

"Yes, but don't do it," begged Stedman, "and
just remember I am American consul now, and
that is a much superior being to a crowned
monarch; you said so yourself."

Albert did not reply to this, but ran across
the plaza, followed by the two Bradleys. The
boats had gone.

"Hoist that flag beside the brass cannon," he
cried, "and stand ready to salute it when I
drop this one."

305

THE REPORTER WHO

Bradley, Jr., grasped the halyards of the flag,
which he had forgotten to raise and salute in
the morning in all the excitement of the arrival
of the man-of-war. Bradley, Sr., stood by the
brass cannon, blowing gently on his lighted
fuse. The Peacemaker took the halyards of
the German flag in his two hands, gave a quick,
sharp tug, and down came the red, white, and
black piece of bunting, and the next moment
young Bradley sent the Stars and Stripes up
in its place. As it rose, Bradley's brass can
non barked merrily like a little bull-dog, and
the Peacemaker cheered.

"Why don't you cheer, Stedman?" he
shouted. "Tell those people to cheer for all
they are -worth. What sort of an American
consul are you?"

Stedman raised his arm half-heartedly to
give the time, and opened his mouth; but his
arm remained fixed and his mouth open, while
his eyes stared at the retreating boat of the
German man-of-war. In the stern sheets of
this boat the stout German captain was strug
gling unsteadily to his feet; he raised his arm
and waved it to some one on the great man-of-
war, as though giving an order. The natives
looked from Stedman to the boat, and even Gor
don stopped in his cheering, and stood motion
less, watching. They had not very long to

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MADE HIMSELF KING

wait. There was a puff of white smoke, and a
flash, and then a loud report, and across the
water came a great black ball skipping lightly
through and over the waves, as easily as a flat
stone thrown by a boy. It seemed to come
very slowly. At least it came slowly enough
for every one to see that it was coming directly
toward the brass cannon. The Bradleys cer
tainly saw this, for they ran as fast as they
could, and kept on running. The ball caught
the cannon under its mouth and tossed it in
the air, knocking the flag-pole into a dozen
pieces, and passing on through two of the palm-
covered huts.

tf Great Heavens, Gordon!" cried Stedman;
"they are firing on us."

But Gordon's face was radiant and wild.

"Firing on us!" he cried. "On us! Don't
you see? Don't you understand? What do
we amount to? They have fired on the Ameri
can flag! Don't you see what that means?
It means war. A great international war.
And I am a war correspondent at last!" He
ran up to Stedmari and seized him by the arm
so tightly that it hurt.

"By three o'clock," he said, "they will know
in the office what has happened. The country
will know it to-morrow when the paper is on
the street; people will read it all over the world.

307

THE REPORTER WHO

The Emperor will hear of it at breakfast; *he
President will cable for further particulars. He
will get them. It is the chance of a lifetime,
and we are on the spot!"

Stedman did not hear this; he was watching
the broadside of the ship to see another puff of
white smoke, but there came no such sign. The
two row-boats were raised, there was a cloud of
black smoke from the funnel, a creaking of
chains sounding faintly across the water, and
the ship started at half-speed and moved out
of the harbor. The Opekians and the Hillmen
fell on their knees, or to dancing, as best suited
their sense of relief, but Gordon shook his head.

"They are only going to land the marines,"
he said; "perhaps they are going to the spot
they stopped at before, or to take up another
position farther out at sea. They will land
men and then shell the town, and the land
forces will march here and co-operate with the
vessel, and everybody will be taken prisoner or
killed. We have the centre of the stage, and
we are making history."

"I'd rather read it than make it," said Sted
man. "You've got us in a senseless, silly
position, Gordon, and a mighty unpleasant one.
And for no reason that I can see, except to
make copy for your paper."

"Tell those people to get their things to-
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MADE HIMSELF KING

gether," said Gordon, "and march back out of
danger into the woods. Tell Ollypybus I am
going to fix things all right; I don't know just
how yet, but I will, and now come after me as
quickly as you can to the cable office. I've
got to tell the paper all about it."

It was three o'clock before the "chap at
Octavia" answered Stedman's signalling. Then
Stedman delivered Gordon's message, and im
mediately shut off all connection, before the
Octavia operator could question him. Gordon
dictated his message in this way: —

"Begin with the date line, 'Opeki, June 22.'
"At seven o'clock this morning, the captain
and officers of the German man-of-war Kaiser
went through the ceremony of annexing this
island in the name of the German Emperor,
basing their right to do so on an agreement
made with a leader of a wandering tribe known
as the Hillmen. King Ollypybus, the present
monarch of Opeki, delegated his authority, as
also did the leader of the Hillmen, to King
Tellaman, or the Peacemaker, who tore down
the German flag, and raised that of the United
States in its place. At the same moment the
flag was saluted by the battery. This salute,
being mistaken for an attack on the Kaiser,
was answered by that vessel. Her first shot took
immediate effect, completely destroying the

309

THE REPORTER WHO

entire battery of the Opekians, cutting down
the American flag, and destroying the houses
of the people

" There was only one brass cannon and two
huts," expostulated Stedman.

"Well, that was the whole battery, wasn't
it?" asked Gordon, "and two huts is plural.
I said houses of the people. I couldn't say
two houses of the people. Just you send this
as you get it. You are not an American consul
at the present moment. You are an under-paid
agent of a cable company, and you send my
stuff as I write it. The American residents
have taken refuge in the consulate — that's us,"
explained Gordon, " and the English residents
have sought refuge in the woods — that's the
Bradleys. King Tellaman — that's me — declares
his intention of fighting against the annexation.
The forces of the Opekians are under the com
mand of Captain Thomas Bradley — I guess I
might as well make him a colonel — of Colonel
Thomas Bradley, of the English army.

" The American consul says — Now, what do
you say, Stedman? Hurry up, please," asked
Gordon, "and say something good and strong."

"You get me all mixed up," complained
Stedman, plaintively. "Which am I now, a
cable operator or the American consul?"

"Consul, of course. Say something patriotic
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MADE HIMSELF KING

and about your determination to protect the
interests of your government, and all that."
Gordon bit the end of his pencil impatiently,
and waited.

"I won't do anything of the sort, Gordon,"
said Stedman; "you are getting me into an
awful lot of trouble, and yourself too. I won't
say a word."

"The American consul," read Gordon, as
his pencil wriggled across the paper, "refuses
to say anything for publication until he has
communicated with the authorities at Washing
ton, but from all I can learn he sympathizes
entirely with Tellaman. Your correspondent
has just returned from an audience with King
Tellaman, who asks him to inform the American
people that the Monroe doctrine will be sustained
as long as he rules this, island. I guess that's
enough to begin with," said Gordon. "Now
send that off quick, and then get away from the
instrument before the man in Octavia begins
to ask questions. I am going out to precipitate

matters."

Gordon found the two kings sitting dejectedly
side by side, and gazing grimly upon the dis
order of the village, from which the people
were taking their leave as quickly as they could
get their few belongings piled upon the ox-carts.
Gordon walked among them, helping them in

3"

THE REPORTER WHO

every way he could, and tasting, in their subser
vience and gratitude, the sweets of sovereignty.
When Stedman had locked up the cable office
and rejoined him, he bade him tell Messenwah
to send three of his youngest men and fastest
runners back to the hills to watch for the
German vessel and see where she was attempting
to land her marines.

"This is a tremendous chance for descriptive
writing, Stedman," said Gordon, enthusias
tically; "all this confusion and excitement, and
the people leaving their homes, and all that.
It's like the people getting out of Brussels before
Waterloo, and then the scene at the foot of the
mountains, while they are camping out there,
until the Germans leave. I never had a chance
like this before."

It was quite dark by six o'clock, and none of
the three messengers had as yet returned.
Gordon walked up and down the empty plaza
and looked now at the horizon for the man-of-
war, and again down the road back of the
village. But neither the vessel nor the messen
gers bearing word of her appeared. The night
passed without any incident, and in the morning
Gordon's impatience became so great that he
walked out to where the villagers were in camp
and passed on half way up the mountain, but
he could see no sign of the man-of-war. He

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MADE HIMSELF KING

came back more restless than before, and keenly
disappointed.

"If something don't happen before three
o'clock, Stedman," he said, "our second cable
gram will have to consist of glittering generali
ties and a lengthy interview with King Tellaman,
by himself."

Nothing did happen. OHypybus and Messen-
wah began to breathe more freely. They be
lieved the new king had succeeded in frightening
the German vessel away forever. But the new
king upset their hopes by telling them that the
Germans had undoubtedly already landed, and
had probably killed the three messengers.

"Now then," he said, with pleased expecta
tion, as Stedman and he seated themselves in
the cable office at three o'clock, "open it up
and let's find out what sort of an impression
we have made."

Stedman's face, as the answer came in to his
first message of greeting, was one of strangely
marked disapproval.

"What does he say?" demanded Gordon,
anxiously.

"He hasn't done anything but swear yet,'*
answered Stedman, grimly.

"What is he swearing about?"

"He wants to know why I left the cable
yesterday. He says he has been trying to call

313

THE REPORTER WHO

me up for the last twenty-four hours, ever
since I sent my message at three o'clock. The
home office is jumping mad, and want me
discharged. They won't do that, though," he
said, in a cheerful aside, "because they haven't
paid me my salary for the last eight months.
He says — great Scott ! this will please you,
Gordon — he says that there have been over
two hundred queries for matter from papers all
over the United States, and from Europe.
Your paper beat them on the news, and now
the home office is packed with San Francisco
reporters, and the telegrams are coming in
every minute, and they have been abusing
him for not answering them, and he says that
I'm a fool. He wants as much as you can send,
and all the details. He says all the papers
will have to put 'By Yokohama Cable Com
pany' on the top of each message they print,
and that that is advertising the company, and
is sending the stock up. It rose fifteen points
on 'change in San Francisco to-day, and the

president and the other officers are buying "

"Oh, I don't want to hear about their old
company," snapped out Gordon, pacing up
and down in despair. "What am I to do?
that's what I want to know. Here I have the
whole country stirred up and begging for news.
On their knees for it, and a cable all to myself*

MADE HIMSELF KING

and the only man on the spot, and nothing to
say. I'd just like to know how long that Ger
man idiot intends to wait before he begins shell
ing this town and killing people. He has put
me in a most absurd position."

"Here's a message for you, Gordon," said
Stedman, with business-like calm. "Albert
Gordon, correspondent," he read. "Try Ameri
can consul. First message O. K.; beat the
country; can take all you send. Give names
of foreign residents massacred, and fuller ac
count blowing up palace. Dodge."

The expression on Gordon's face as this mes
sage was slowly read off to him, had changed
from one of gratified pride to one of puzzled
consternation.

"What's he mean by foreign residents massa
cred, and blowing up of palace?" asked Sted
man, looking over his shoulder anxiously. "Who
is Dodge?"

"Dodge is the night editor," said Gordon,
nervously. "They must have read my message
wrong. You sent just what I gave you, didn't
you?" he asked.

"Of course I did," said Stedman, indig
nantly.

"I didn't say anything about the massacre
of anybody, did I?" asked Gordon. "I hope
they are not improving on my account. What

315

THE REPORTER WHO

am I to do? This is getting awful. I'll have
to go out and kill a few people myself. Oh,
why don't that Dutch captain begin to do
something! What sort of a fighter does he
call himself? He wouldn't shoot at a school of
porpoises. He's not "

" Here comes a message to Leonard T. Travis,
American consul, Opeki," read Stedman. " It's
raining messages to-day. 'Send full details of
massacre of American citizens by German
sailors.' Secretary of — great Scott!" gasped
Stedman, interrupting himself and gazing at
his instrument with horrified fascination — "the
Secretary of State."

"That settles it," roared Gordon, pulling at
his hair and burying his face in his hands. " I
have got to kill some of them now."

"Albert Gordon, correspondent," read Sted
man, impressively, like the voice of Fate. "Is
Colonel Thomas Bradley, commanding native
forces at Opeki, Colonel Sir Thomas Kent-
Bradley of Crimean war fame? Correspondent
London Times, San Francisco Press Club."

"Go on, go on!" said Gordon, desperately.
"I'm getting used to it now. Go on !"

"American consul, Opeki," read Stedman.
"Home Secretary desires you to furnish list of
names English residents killed during shelling
of Opeki by ship of war Kaiser, and estimate of

316

MADE HIMSELF KING

amount property destroyed. Stoughton, Brit
ish Embassy, Washington."

"Stedman!" cried Gordon, jumping to his
feet, "there's a mistake here somewhere. These
people cannot all have made my message read
like that. Some one has altered it, and now I
have got to make these people here live up to
that message, whether they like being mas
sacred and blown up or not. Don't answer any
of those messages except the one from Dodge;
tell him things have quieted down a bit, and
that FII send four thousand words on the flight
of the natives from the village, and their en
campment at the foot of the mountains, and of
the exploring party we have sent out to look
for the German vessel; and now I am going
out to make something happen."

Gordon said that he would be gone for two
hours at least, and as Stedman did not feel
capable of receiving any more nerve-stirring
messages, he cut off all connection with Octavia
by saying, "Good-by for two hours," and run
ning away from the office. He sat down on a
rock on the beach, and mopped his face with
his handkerchief.

"After a man has taken nothing more exciting
than weather reports from Octavia for a year,"
he soliloquized, "it's a bit disturbing to have
all the crowned heads of Europe and their

317

THE REPORTER WHO

secretaries calling upon you for details of a
massacre that never came off."

At the end of two hours Gordon returned
from the consulate with a mass of manuscript
in his hand.

"Here's three thousand words," he said,
desperately. "I never wrote more and said
less in my life. It will make them weep at the
office. I had to pretend that they knew all
that had happened so far; they apparently do
know more than we do, and I have filled it full
of prophecies of more trouble ahead, and with
interviews with myself and the two ex-Kings.
The only news element in it is, that the mes
sengers have returned to report that the German
vessel is not in sight, and that there is no news.
They think she has gone for good. Suppose
she has, Stedman," he groaned, looking at him
helplessly, "what am I going to do?"

"Well, as for me," said Stedman, "I'm afraid
to go near that cable. It's like playing with a
live wire. My nervous system won't stand
many more such shocks as those they gave us
this afternoon."

Gordon threw himself down dejectedly in a
chair in the office, and Stedman approached
his instrument gingerly, as though it might
explode.

"He's swearing again," he explained, sadly,

318

MADE HIMSELF KING

in answer to Gordon's look of inquiry. "He
wants to know when I am going to stop running
away from the wire. He has a stack of messages
to send, he says, but I guess he'd better wait
and take your copy first; don't you think so"?"

"Yes, I do," said Gordon. "I don't want
any more messages than I've had. That's the
best I can do," he said, as he threw his manu
script down beside Stedman. "And they can
keep on cabling until the wire burns red hot, and
they won't get any more."

There was silence in the office for some time,
while Stedman looked over Gordon's copy, and
Gordon stared dejectedly out at the ocean.

"This is pretty poor stuff, Gordon," said
Stedman. "It's like giving people milk when
they want brandy."

"Don't you suppose I know that?" growled
Gordon. "It's the best I can do, isn't it?
It's not my fault that we are not all dead now.
I can't massacre foreign residents if there are
no foreign residents, but I can commit suicide,
though, and I'll do it if something don't happen."

There was a long pause, in which the silence
of the office was only broken by the sound of
the waves beating on the coral reefs outside.
Stedman raised his head wearily.

"He's swearing again," he said; "he says this
stuff of yours is all nonsense. He says stock in

319

THE REPORTER WHO

the Y. C. C. has gone up to one hundred and
two, and that owners are unloading and making
their fortunes, and that this sort of descriptive
writing is not what the company want."

"What's he think I'm here for?" cried Gor
don. "Does he think I pulled down the Ger
man flag and risked my neck half a dozen times
and had myself made King just to boom his
Yokohama cable stock? Confound him! You
might at least swear back. Tell him just what
the situation is in a few words. Here, stop
that rigmarole to the paper, and explain to
your home office that we are awaiting develop
ments, and that, in the meanwhile, they must
put up with the best we can send them. WTait;
send this to Octavia."

Gordon wrote rapidly, and read what he wrote
as rapidly as it was written.

"Operator, Octavia. You seem to have mis
understood my first message. The facts in the
case are these. A German man-of-war raised
a flag on this island. It was pulled down and
the American flag raised in its place and saluted
by a brass cannon. The German man-of-war
fired once at the flag and knocked it down, and
then steamed away and has not been seen since.
Two huts were upset, that is all the damage
done; the battery consisted of the one brass
cannon before mentioned. No one, either na-

320

MADE HIMSELF KING

tive or foreign, has been massacred. The
English residents are two sailors. The Ameri
can residents are the young man who is sending
you this cable and myself. Our first message
was quite true in substance, but perhaps mis
leading in detail. I made it so because I fully
expected much more to happen immediately.
Nothing has happened, or seems likely to hap
pen, and that is the exact situation up to date.
Albert Gordon."

"Now," he asked, after a pause, "what does
he say to that?"

"He doesn't say anything," said Stedman.

"I guess he has fainted. Here it comes," he
added in the same breath. He bent toward his
instrument, and Gordon raised himself from
his chair and stood beside him as he read it off.
The two young men hardly breathed in the
intensity of their interest.

"Dear Stedman," he slowly read aloud.
"You and your young friend are a couple of
fools. If you had allowed me to send you the
messages awaiting transmission here to you,
you would not have sent me such a confession
of guilt as you have just done. You had better
leave Opeki at once or hide in the hills. I am
afraid I have placed you in a somewhat com
promising position with the company, which
is unfortunate, especially as, if I am not mis-

321

THE REPORTER WHO

taken, they owe you some back pay. You
should have been wiser in your day, and bought
Y. C. C. stock when it was down to five cents,
as 'yours truly' did. You are not, Stedman,
as bright a boy as some. And as for your
friend, the war correspondent, he has queered
himself for life. You see, my dear Stedman,
after I had sent off your first message, and
demands for further details came pouring in,
and I could not get you at the wire to supply
them, I took the liberty of sending some on
myself."

"Great Heavens!" gasped Gordon.

Stedman grew very white under his tan, and
the perspiration rolled on his cheeks.

''Your message was so general in its nature,
that it allowed my imagination full play, and
I sent on what I thought would please the
papers, and, what was much more important
to me, would advertise the Y. C. C. stock.
This I have been doing while waiting for mate
rial from you. Not having a clear idea of the
dimensions or population of Opeki, it is possible
that I have done you and your newspaper friend
some injustice. I killed off about a hundred
American residents, two hundred English, be
cause I do not like the English, and a hundred
French. I blew up old Ollypybus and his
palace with dynamite, and shelled the city,

322

MADE HIMSELF KING

destroying some hundred thousand dollars'
worth of property, and then I waited anxiously
for your friend to substantiate what I had said.
This he has most unkindly failed to do. I am
very sorry, but much more so for him than for
myself, for I, my dear friend, have cabled on to
a man in San Francisco, who is one of the di
rectors of the Y. C. C., to sell all my stock,
which he has done at one hundred and two,
and he is keeping the money until I come.
And I leave Octavia this afternoon to reap my
just reward. I am in about twenty thousand
dollars on your little war, and I feel grateful.
So much so that I will inform you that the ship
of war Kaiser has arrived at San Francisco,
for which port she sailed directly from Opeki.
Her captain has explained the real situation,
and offered to make every amend for the acci
dental indignity shown to our flag. He says
he aimed at the cannon, which was trained on
his vessel, and which had first fired on him.
But you must know, my dear Stedman, that
before his arrival, war-vessels belonging to the
several powers mentioned in my revised des
patches, had started for Opeki at full speed,
to revenge the butchery of the foreign residents.
A word, my dear young friend, to the wise is
sufficient. I am indebted to you to the extent
of twenty thousand dollars, and in return I

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THE REPORTER WHO

give you this kindly advice. Leave Opeki.
If there is no other way, swim. But leave
Opeki."

The sun, that night, as it sank below the line
where the clouds seemed to touch the sea,
merged them both into a blazing, blood-red
curtain, and colored the most wonderful specta
cle that the natives of Opeki had ever seen.
Six great ships of war, stretching out over a
league of sea, stood blackly out against the red
background, rolling and rising, and leaping
forward, flinging back smoke and burning sparks
up into the air behind them, and throbbing
and panting like living creatures in their race
for revenge. From the south came a three-
decked vessel, a great island of floating steel,
with a flag as red as the angry sky behind it,
snapping in the wind. To the south of it
plunged two long low-lying torpedo-boats, flying
the French tri-color, and still farther to the
north towered three magnificent hulls of the
White Squadron. Vengeance was written on
every curve and line, on each straining engine-
rod, and on each polished gun-muzzle.

And in front of these, a clumsy fishing-boat
rose and fell on each passing wave. Two
sailors sat in the stern, holding the rope and
tiller, and in the bow, with their backs turned
forever toward Opeki, stood two young boys,

3*4

MADE HIMSELF KING

their faces lit by the glow of the setting sun and
stirred by the sight of the great engines of war
plunging past them on their errand of vengeance.
"Stedman," said the elder boy, in an awe
struck whisper, and with a wave of his hand,
"we have not lived in vain."

STORED AT

I

THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ

This book is due on the last DATE stamped below.

100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373

PS1522.E97 1918

3 2106 00206 6485